The Laundromat Machines All Showed My Birthday
In the empty laundromat, every glowing timer showed my birthday. The stranger who drifted in knew more than the machines did.
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The Street Ended Somewhere It Shouldn’t
On a route I could drive blindfolded, the asphalt ended in raw earth and weeds. The GPS insisted I was on a road. Then the porch lights came on.
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The Hallway Was Longer Than the House
I know the length of my hallway as well as I know my own stride. That night, it kept going past the walls of the house, past the light, past what fit inside our rooms.
