tooth soup

The washing machine that Pat’s grandparents kindly lent us really does sound like it’s about to explode very time it does a wash. It builds up a crescendo worthy of any string symphony and, just when you think it’s about to destroy itself with the shaking and lurching all over the tiles, it stops. Silence. A full silence, like that of a battlefield before the inevitable artillery fire. I never want to approach it within this silence, but I want my fucking clothes, so I must. I have not yet been obliterated, but one day you will not see me for a few days, and upon investigation of the laundry you will find me coating the walls.

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