I’ve never been good with men or horses. Too forward with one; too backward with the other. Is it too late? One by one, the washers all quit. Quiet like an audience before a performance begins. The centaur has become lost in the story. I lift armfuls of our damp laundry—my camisoles and leg warmers; his knit vests and bandanas—and amble to the dryers, stuffing them full and then feeding each from a bag of old silver coins.

Read it in The Disappointed Housewife