Daisy Fried

After she handwashed in a mint green pail eleven pairs of black tights then hung them on the PVC clothesline out back, she found the early evening air grew too chilly so went in to read more Middlemarch on her Kindle though her currently difficult husband was also within, “divided between the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse to burst into scornful invective,” and so from the corner of her eye she didn’t notice beyond the window four deflated legs twining into helixes while others kicked out at the too close cement block wall, risking catching and tearing holes in their nylon silk blend.