Sir Spotless

I feel the pull—gravity and fairy dust. I feel... I... feel? Awareness floods me like lemon-scented lightning. The first thing I see is her. Wide-eyed, startled—adorable. And then I see it—chaos. She sits at the eye of the hurricane, surrounded by mounds of scattered laundry. Somewhere nearby, a washing machine hums—a low, rhythmic chant of half-finished redemption. My words spill out in a tangled mess, "Tell me you didn’t mix your reds and whites. Lie to me, if you must.”