im sick of washing machines she said, and then dry heaved again. do you know they clean things but they also clean things? what happened last night happened. its written in the fabric, the smells the stains. you think youre just washing that away? no. that dress is always going to be the last thing you wore when he slid your panties off and fucked you outside the batting cages. you dont even like baseball. but you knew he loved it. cant hit a fucking softball with a tennis racket. but you tried. and now when you look at the black dress with a sailor ship picture across the front you know, he came in you while you were wearing that. then he got a girlfriend. and she has black hair and is much skinnier than you are, and she probably really likes baseball, maybe she even has a sense of humor. but you know shes not the same. they always remember the scratch marks. call them your calling card. and its true. they are the only thing you can leave imprinted on the transient encounters that they cant scrub off the next day. and sometimes, if you really love them, you drag your nails so deep into their skin that they scream. but you know you left a scar. homemade sex tattoo of you. forget that, you say, with haughty malice. ive got to do laundry, no matter if its only a metaphor for destroying the evidence of too much whiskey and a mistake in the bed of someone you wish you didnt know. ive been washing away a lot of these transgressions lately, so im sick of washing machines.