The clothes I’d washed last night were still tumbling the next morning. I crouched barefoot on the balcony, watching. The water had long drained, but the machine kept spinning, dry, scraping. I pressed the stop button. The light went out. The drum spun faster. I unplugged it. Still, it turned. The drain hose twitched.

The repairman showed up, a half-burnt cigarette stuck to his lip. His wrench rang sharp against the panel. Whap. Whap. Whap. He slapped the buttons, like disciplining a disobedient girl. Then he kicked the machine. “Some things don’t know how to behave,” he said. “Let it throw its tantrum. It’ll stop when it’s tired.”

I pressed my ear to the hot door. The metal button on a pair of jeans clicked against the drum. A drawstring had tangled with a bra strap, like a slow-motion choke. By evening, the soft swish had swelled into the roar of a train. I covered it with a towel, then two thick blankets. Still, the sound slipped through.

The neighbor knocked. “Something’s loud in there,” she said.

I bowed. “Sorry. The clothes are still dirty.”

The machine let out a dry, retching krrrk.

On the third day, it was still spinning. The laundry basket had filled again. At the bottom curled the purple floral dress, ripped in an alley by a drunk man. It reeked of rust and sweat. Sour and silent. I knelt, arms wrapped around the trembling machine. Inside, the clothes thrashed. When it finally wore itself out, I’d shove that night’s shame in too. Let it churn until it frothed into something clean. Something white.