Milie and I sat at the laundromat. Milie said “That must be a button,” in response to a light tapping sound against the glass window of the front-loader washing machine. Then she said “iPod!” leaping from her seat and reaching uselessly towards the door that cannot be opened when the in use light is illuminated. Her hands fell to her sides, “I can’t open it.” And we were compelled to watch the iPod shuffle tumble through the suds, disappear in and out of legs of jeans, tapping against the glass every time we momentarily forgot the tragedy that a simple pocket search could have prevented.
But against all reason, after an evening in front of the window fan, drying out on the bottom of an overturned pilsner glass, the iPod shuffle plays on. I dream of that day in the future when all pocket-sized electronics are fully machine-washable. When chapstick has a melting temperature higher than dryer heat.