Waiting For the Wash

I was slumped in the plastic lawn chair and was fixated upon the spinning cycle of the washing machine. I stared at the psychedelic trip of prismatic swirl and listened to the innate hum of the machine’s innards as the clothes churned around and around in circles. The tangled clothes were lustful dancers in the gyrating, soaking discotheque. The midnight blue leg of the jeans seductively wrapped herself around the arm of a dapper and unexacting turtleneck. A trio of tee shirts stuck to the farther wall of the machine, each afraid to venture near the vortex, but each was curious and watched the scene from a distance. Two socks- one black, one white- clung to a pair of boxers with such pathetic longing, that it caused me to blush. I watched the clothes the way a chaperone would keep his eyes on the student body at the prom. It is at this point that I realize I need to find a girlfriend.