Drying clothes on a line in a garden would be more enjoyable than pinning them to the jointed metal and nylon-roped creature that droops over the interior courtyard of my building. If I drop something (and I have), I’m not even sure there’s a door down there to be able to retrieve it. Not that I’ve looked. I do realize there must be one. Our collective droppings are nowhere to be seen. Just rust-colored tiles and dirty grout.
The lady across the way and I have coincided as we hang our drippy things. She could be my grandmother: compact and topped off with a pouf of white. We nod to each other, mindful not to stare at the others’ things. Once abandoned, the wares of one’s line are a public affair. Medias-hanging, however, fingertips still chilled from the wetness, they are still due a measure of privacy. This is what I’m thinking as I try to untangle a rather convoluted piece of lingerie. The sexy black satin straps are currently a very unsexy knot. I’ve almost got it when she waves. Beaming, she holds up a lacey thong. She shoots me a thumbs up just as the knot gives way.
I'm going to try to write at least one little super flash fiction a day until the quarantine lets up. If you want to join, I'd love to hear from you! Shoot me a message! Try writing anything, ANYTHING! Just 150-200 words. It's fun. Doesn't have to be good.
Until then, here's the moment from New Girl that semi-inspired this piece.