The Bin: A Flash Memoir ©2018 by Marc Alexander Valle

“My mom says I gotta separate the laundry before we can play games,” Sal said. “Want to help?”

It was my first sleepover and this was new to me. My mom never let me touch the laundry. I said yes.

“Whites, darks, and lights,” he said. “That’s how you pile them up, Marc.”

I dug into one of the two bins that was closest to me.

This is dark.

Toss.

This is light.

Toss.

This is white.

Toss.

Until all three piles formed into mounds.

“You’re a liar,” he joked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Nah-uh. First time.”

This is dark.

Toss.

This is light

Toss.

This is white.

Holy snap! It’s got doo-doo on it!

Toss!

I backed away from the bin.

“What’s the matter?” Sal said, continuing his work.

“Nothing.”

“You’re not gonna help?”

“Yeah. I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, can it wait? Just a little more, right?”

That had to be the only dirty underwear in there.

Maybe it was just a one-time thing.

“All right,” I said.

I stared at the bin. Another pair of white underwear stared back.

“It’s just clothes,” he said. “It’s not gonna bite.”

I couldn’t tell if it was soiled. It was too crumpled up. Not enough light.

I’ll grab the elastic. You can’t do boom-boom on the elastic.

“I’m done on my end,” he said. “Anymore?”

Maybe I can pretend I don’t see anything.

“What’s the matter, slowpoke?” he said, laughing.

I kept staring, debating, not wanting him to know that I knew.

“Marc, anymore?”

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