Marla whispered, ‘You are strong,’ to her wrinkled shirt, then tossed it into the washer. The machine rumbled. ‘You are resilient,’ she said, adding a stubborn pair of jeans. The dryer hummed. By dawn, her clothes had staged a mutiny: the shirt stood tall in the hamper, sleeves raised like a boxer. The jeans refused to be folded. Marla stared. ‘I am flexible,’ she tried, but the socks had already fled, whispering, ‘We are free.’
