Laundry day was absurdly sexy. Laundry day was an underwear-less, bra-less, fishnet tights, back-less dress kind of day. This was one of the many lazy contradictions of her life. Like how she grew her hair long to only ever wear it piled on top of her head or how she dreamed of a life on stage in front of hundreds of strangers, but couldn’t bear crowded parties full of people she didn’t know. The performance of life was anxiety producing while a certain fourth wall building expertise was the happiest she could be. She cultivated a one-woman show to be able to walk down the street everyday. She taught herself the skills she thought of asking other people, assuming self-reliance must be simpler, even if it was stunting. The city afforded her an anonymity she embraced. The city assaulted her with the possibility of running into an acquaintance on every corner, which she shirked. Laundry day happened too infrequently, by the time it came around this was all that was left in her wardrobe, a slinky dress, a handful of bobby pins, a quiet ambition and a secret lust for a life she didn’t dare live.