Through the Porthole

Returning inside after visiting the mail lobby, a rhythmic hum drew me toward the utility alcove. A front-loading washing machine was finishing its cycle. *Chime.* I tilted my head thirty degrees toward the thick, curved glass porthole. Inside, tangled colorful fabrics drifted through cascading droplets under the internal drum light. I rested both hands against the cool, vibrating acrylic rim to steady my balance. Through the convex curve, soapy water streaked in concentric arcs, warping the tumbling blue denim into strange, fluid waves. The internal agitation gradually slowed to a steady halt.