I don’t think I’ve ever done laundry for fewer than two people before, and I’m confused.
And just a little frightened.
How strange, to do only one’s own laundry. Six socks, three shirts, a pair of pants and bath towel lie across chairs, dangle from hangers, drying slowly.
I stare at them, a dare, perhaps. I imagine the socks lining up in front of me, a can-can of plain white athletic socks, a diversion while the bath towel creep ups from behind, throws itself over my head… The pants – a shifty pair with a untrustworthy zipper – go through my wallet, laugh maniacally when faced with the lousy $17 it finds; and all of them chuckle madly as they tear down the hall toward the elevator, off to stuff dollar bills in the G-string of an unsuspecting stripper while the socks chant "Put it on! Put it on!"
Of course, if the dryer were available, they’d all be hidden away, tumbling, heel-over-toe, a mish-mash of freshly cleaned whites. Washed in a detergent scent once described by a friend as “angel fart”, the condo would smell of ambition, of a triumph of good over sweaty.
But the dryer’s not working, and anyone walking in would think that something untoward has happened with the hamper, that a virulent strain of garment flu has struck, resulting in an explosion of laundered garb, the washing-machine equivalent of a particularly unsettled stomach.
Man. I gotta get out more.