He hung heavy over a pile of last night's clothes: Soaked, Cigarette-Infused, with just a hint of last calls and shoulda-went-home-withs.
He grabs the mound from off the floor and smells the aroma of a night better spent sober.
Wits about him, he grabs for his wallet--down a 20, no two 20s--and still woke up alone.
No girl, no awkward moments--
no asking, "How about some eggs?"
He lifts the clothes and begins loading them into the washer.
Who actually separates the colors from whites?
Women, maybe--but no woman here.
He pours the detergent, hypoallergenic, but still enough of a scent to blow away a dozen Marlboros and the occasional bowl against better judgement.
The water starts to fill;
drowning a jumble of underclothes, buttondowns, and the jeans he had to take off himself.
He sets the cycle.
The clothing blurs in the soapy water: messy, clean, water trodden.
The rinse cycle: the earth was spinning without him, without a her. The self remains soiled.