Landromat

If it were a movie I would have been smoking a cigarette. But it wasn't and I sat there staring at the clock framed with black, second hand ticking. White walls, white machines, so much white-- to prove cleanliness?

I probably wouldn't have cried except I felt obligated to. Or maybe I was just caught in the moment. I had given him a blow job-- tears were necessary.

So, I thought, when do we work on resolving the stains of our past? When do we ask the questions to find out what really happened? (because I really do want to know.) And when does time finally bleach the mistakes?