It is barely evening, the hush of new darkness spilling in the windows and lightly touching each framed picture on the living room wall, masking the faces into featureless, familiar blobs. I am in the laundry room, lights off, switching the laundry from washer to dryer, fingers pruny from damp shirts and pants and socks. Savoring the hidden, enclosed feeling I get from being wedged into this space between two giant, pulsing machines. I could crouch down right here behind the washer and nobody would find me until I wanted to be found. I could fall asleep here next to the warm, humming toss of the dryer, cross-legged on the slick, gold and green patterned floor. I bend my knees and lower myself to the cool linoleum, just trying it out, wanting to stretch this moment into the rest of my life. From my hiding spot I can hear her enter the living room and switch on the TV. Used car commercial murmuring in the background. She doesn’t know where I am and doesn’t seem bothered by it, a small relief in our lifestyle of constant companionship. I pass nearly an hour in this manner, shoulder leaned into the laundry room’s paneled wall, breathing in the sweet smell of fabric softener as the dryer sucks the dripping wet from our bath towels and my jeans thump, thump, thump inside the tumbling drum.