At the bottom of the stairs, I shoulder the enormous bag of laundry and trudge down to the corner. I think of peasants carrying enormous bags of sticks, like on that Led Zeppelin album cover.
At the laundromat, I drop it off after receiving assurances that I can pick it up, clean and dry and folded, before the end of the day, a privilege for which I will pay dearly, and then head back home. The cloudy sky that has been threatening rain all morning begins to pour in earnest, and I wrap my flannel around me and run across the street, my size 12 Converse flapping on the rapidly wetting asphalt until I'm safely under the awning of the real estate office around the corner from my apartment, and I walk under that until I'm safely home.
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