Wet Blanket

I finally grew disgusted enough with the kitchen to clean. I don’t think a visitor would consider it particularly messy, but I was tired of crumbs everywhere. I swept, mopped, sprayed, wiped, and started the dishwasher. Chores to keep my mind occupied. I threw away that comforter on the balcony. It had been sitting in a box half-soaked for months, because when I put it in the washing machine the rinse and drain cycle didn’t work, and it was soaking in a basin of soapy water, and I couldn’t put it in the dryer because it was too heavy, and the stupid washing machine wouldn’t work so I put it on a box and left it on the balcony. Three months later and it was still half wet, heavy, and slightly moldy. I scuttled down the stairs, wondering if the neighbors were confused seeing me struggle to carry a blanket. I could have left that blanket on the balcony for years and years, moved out and left Phoenix, maybe even leave the country, and time would pass and things would remain unchanged, the blanket would still be there, half soaked. Or maybe I’d stay here in this apartment forever, everyday a five minute drive to work, the half soaked blanket and I soaking up the desert sun, swaying with the rare breeze that would part its way through palm trees, slowly, slowly drying up, waiting for the end of the world.