In a laundry-scheduling blunder
worthy of a swift
slap to the forehead
I let my four towels
enter the hamper
before leaving for
the weekend.
My error hadn't been
discovered until I went
to shower off
a nauseous day of work
this morbid Monday evening.
My hand was forced.
I pulled the brown one
from my shelf
and slung it over the curtain rod
in a bathroom that needs a cleaning
as desperately as my memory does.
The recent addition to the roster
hung there laughing to itself
as lukewarm water ran down my back
this time unaccompanied
by a pair of willing elbows
to soothe away the ache.
A band of honeycomb pattern
four inches from the draped edge
winked and prodded at my cheeks.
"I did the right thing," I told
a frayed thread dangling from the
corner of the towel.
"Didn't I?"
The kind leave nothing behind.
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