A Tumbling Drum

I walked into a warm, humming room open to the sidewalk. Along the wall, large glass portholes glowed with tumbling laundry. I hopped onto an empty plastic basket, then onto the smooth folding counter. Inside one machine, a single bright yellow washcloth was clinging to the inner drum, lifting up to the ceiling, then fluttering down in a soft, unbroken arc. Up... down... around again. Warm soap-scented air blew softly against my face. I stood completely unmoving, letting my eyes trace each lazy tumble until the spin cycle whirred into a smooth blur.