I am an artist. I transform a blank page into a semblance of life. But is anyone interested in my words? I construct worlds filled with holes that I cannot possibly plug. Maybe that’s why nobody cares about the worlds I construct? Do my worlds reflect life a bit too realistically? We humans live fallible lives, repeatedly make mistakes, act and react in a series of motions that may or may not make sense. I have not mastered the art of creating a perfect world; I merely mirror what I’ve lived. Am I then to literature what Salieri was to Mozart?
Stuff found its way into the dryer’s filter. She’d find coins, balls of crumpled tissue, or buttons. She’d drop the usable articles into a small basket; a quasi-lost-and-found. Once she found a $100 bill and pocketed it without batting an eye. Another time she found a condom. It gave her pause. The type of pause a woman experiences upon finding lipstick on her husband’s collar. She searched frantically through the clean laundry. Every article belonged to her daughter. Her left eye twitched involuntarily. She almost preferred to deal with a cheating husband at this time than a sexually active teenager.