He stands in the backyard, an overflowing basket of wet laundry at his feet. And though his back is to her, he still feels the weight of her stare from the kitchen window.
He knows this show better be good.
He starts with her colorful, frilly stuff before moving to his own pile of dark and heavy. When he’s done, there isn’t an empty space on the entire clothesline.
On his slog back to the house, he locks eyes with his wife and smiles.
The next time she tells him the dryer is on its last legs, he’ll believe her.
The Weekday One Hundred 