Dryer Heat

I squeezed back through the cracked screen door and ambled down the hallway. Right in the walkway sat an open plastic laundry basket, completely loaded with clothes fresh from the dryer. Still radiating pure heat. I didn't deliberate—grabbed the vented rim, hauled my gut over the side, and belly-flopped right into the center. Landed square in a nest of warm flannel shirts. It smells like cheap lavender softener, but my back stopped complaining the second I sank in. Couch can wait. I'm staying buried right here.