Laundry Day

Our meeting is doomed from the beginning.

I am wearing greasy shorts and a stained t-shirt. She's somehow managed to keep one change of clothing clean to wear during her sojourn to the mat. Did she actually do her hair? I should have at least worn a hat.

She is studying. Math. Not history, which I know. Not science, which I could mock my ineptitude towards. Math. Which I know so little about comment is futile.

Her clothes are in the dryer. Mine are still in the wash. Even in our common need, we are opposites.

Not even my pup can bring us together. She had a lab. It ate the drywall in her bathroom.

Thus I read my paper, disheveled, distant, waiting for time to pass.

She folds her clothes neatly and walks out of my life forever.

Damn you laundry day. Damn you.