Tonight I was at the laundromat because our washing machine died and we’re putting off buying a new one. It’s been ten years since I’ve done laundry with strangers. I took along my quarters and fabric softener — and my copy of The Sun. Standing next to the washers, I read “Domisylum,” by Brian Buckbee [August 2004], and it induced a peculiar kind of euphoria. I smiled, laughed, and wanted to read it aloud to my fellow washer persons, but who could have heard me above the din of whirring dryers?
Give in to the temptation. We love getting mail.
(Of course, we reserve the right to edit.)