Some more time passed at some point. You can distantly hear Marigold again: “You have to help my friend. Please.”

The washing machine spins. You watch the clothes spin around. The horrible noise and the violent visuals are hypnotic to you.

“Fucking hurry up!” She slams something against the wall. Pause. “Sorry.”

A smile twists across your face. You imagine picking Process up and lifting him into the washing machine. Lowering him in. You remember his soft body. He would be fine in there.

“They’re like, I don’t fucking know. Something’s wrong. I’m worried they had a seizure.” Pause. “I’m not a fucking doctor! You’re the doctor!”


Dr. Process’ voice: “It’s Josie Veilleux.” Pause. “Tramadone.”

I realize you’re grinning with teeth when the cold air hits your molars. I think you’re probably smiling like a serial killer but you won’t focus your eyes on your reflection so I’m not sure. You’re enjoying hearing Process talk about your suffering. You’re imagining moving him into the dryer.

But I’m the worried one. Who is he talking to?

Time slows to a crawl as I, too, watch our clothes swirl around.

I find myself distracted, thinking about how, probably, most of these clothes aren’t meant to be put into hot water. But Oh my God, muddy colors is preferable to whatever the hell we were doing before. We can get clothes we can run through the wash. No more dirty clothes.

You think to yourself, so so bitterly, it’s not like it matters since Process doesn’t see the colors anyway. I laugh.