Flowers and laundry. Carrying back three loads, glad for the sun having set because the heat was finally starting to ebb and because I was putting off enough heat to dry another load entire from the top of my head, I crossed paths with a dark-haired boy carrying a spray of little white flowers in one hand. He asked if I needed help, and I turned him down with a thank-you, regretting it as soon as he walked past.

A block down the street, I had to put down the box and catch my breath, and right in front of where I'd set it lay a cast-off white flower.

Anyhow, two hours and fifteen bucks from where I started, I now have... oh, about half of my clothes clean. It's really appalling how I let them build up this time. And I found to my dismay that a fairly-new pair of khakis has a burn, not an orange stain like I'd thought, because it wouldn't come out after going through the wash again. Daaaaaaaaamn.

I'm so out of breath, and my head and fingertips are throbbing and tingling, but tonight I sleep in fresh-laundered jammies. Fair trade.