Loud washing machine; its spin is a shake of its head, disappointed in our enthusiasm. Our voices fight for conversation over the sound, meaningless topics searching for traction. The washing machine makes a mockery of gossip, the lack of thought that comes with giggling about celebrity news and people we liked in high-school. Some nights I want to climb inside, soapy water in my pores, scrub away lingering worry. Tonight I don’t feel the need, I’m safe and thoughtless with a friend, what a blessing. Maybe the machine is lonely, filled with someone else’s dirty laundry, looking for a soulmate to be entirely empty with.
It spins with such anger, such loathing, it forces itself from the gap built in its shape. Each cycle pushes it further from the squeals and dancing of women in their twenties - what a lack of appreciation.
‘It thinks it’s better than us.’, you say. ‘yes,’ I respond, ‘but it’s a sad existence to squash someone’s happiness to be better than them.’
You laugh, it’s silly to try to sound profound when there’s stains on your jumper and your keys are sat in a puddle of gin neither of you like. Though, the point stands, and we don’t try to push the machine back into its hole in the wall. Let it be free from us, if it needs to be. We’ll share the anecdote of the missing washing machine over loud music and wine with girlfriends.
love it!