Her husband's white cotton t-shirt, resting in a smooth, expansive pose in the dryer, reminded Maggie Skillet of a fluffy vanilla soufflé. "You have to see this!" she shouted. Reluctantly, Roy Skillet took his eyes away from the BlackBerry in his hand, rose from the sofa on which he was slouched, and headed to his wife who was kneeling in front of the energy-efficient electric dryer in the laundry room. "Your t-shirt," she said in a soft, almost poetic voice. "It looks like a piping hot soufflé, don't you think?"

Roy flashed his wife of six years a weak, placating smile. "Looks more like a snow drift," he said before strolling back to the living room. He couldn't help thinking that the notion of comparing a shirt to a dessert was as asinine as Maggie seeing a similarity between a blue flannel bed sheet and the Detroit River at dusk (which she had noticed the previous evening).

Maggie stood up, removed the crew neck t-shirt from the dryer and folded it with the care and precision of a seasoned salesperson. Then she removed the rest of the warm laundry: a pair of white socks, two white towels, and the white boxer briefs Roy seldom wore because they were snug. (His waist had expanded two inches in six months.) By conventional standards, it was a small load of laundry, but Maggie's loads had become smaller and smaller because the frequency with which she washed clothing had become higher and higher.

Having her own washing machine and dryer was more than a mere luxury to Maggie Skillet; it was an incomparable thrill. As a little girl, she and her mother would traipse seven city blocks to the launderette, each carrying a full load inside a pillow case.

The kids played in the aisles while their mothers measured cups of detergent, sorted clothes under the fluorescent lights, and cleaned out lint trays. As soon as Maggie's laundry was transferred from the washer to the dryer, she would stare at it as it swirled with cyclone force. The process by which dirty clothing became clean was mesmerizing to the young girl; there was an incandescent magic to it.

One Thanksgiving, Maggie's college roommate Allison Husk invited her to her family's estate in Savannah. It wasn't the majestic white stone columns on the front porch or the William and Mary-style armoires in each bedroom that impressed Maggie; it was the laundry room. She had never been in a house with its own laundry facilities, and she couldn't help gawking at the washer/dryer combo as if it was made of 14-karat gold.

During Maggie's first four years of marriage to Roy, there was not a single comparison of fresh laundry to anything edible. Then, one afternoon at the beginning of their fifth year, Maggie proclaimed that a burnt umber bath towel (just removed from the dryer) reminded her of a large pan of fudge brownies straight from a hot oven. "Don't you think so?" she asked Roy.

"Maybe if you're on some kind of hallucinogen," he replied. These occasional comparisons, though bizarre, didn't bother Roy in any significant way. He assumed they were just another of his wife's offbeat creative spurts like reading Virginia Woolf or taking hatha yoga. The shy, green-eyed girl had grown up to be a wavy-haired, willowy woman with a quirky sensibility. She had few friends, fewer secrets (except for a wounded heart that she feared would never heal), and a plethora of poetry anthologies.

Paying the bills and moving the trash containers to the road the night before collection day were responsibilities Roy met with aplomb. Being a supportive partner was where he fell short. It seemed that an invisible wall had been built around him, keeping anything resembling compassion at bay. Even when Allison Husk had hung herself in the capacious closet of her father's wood-paneled den, Roy expressed little sympathy and discouraged Maggie from flying to Savannah for the funeral.

At the start, Maggie adored Roy Skillet; in fact, she was as fond of him as she was of cashmere. But the unspoken truth was that the marriage took place because the bride didn't believe anyone else would come along. Two years earlier, Wade Brandt had declared his love for her almost daily; he'd even written poetry inspired by her (so he said). Then he abruptly took off, leaving a handwritten note behind: "Sorry it didn't work out." Maggie never quite recovered from this odious farewell; she felt like she was living with a gaping hole in her soul. When Roy proposed at the skating rink four months after they met, Maggie thought she should take what she could get. The couple flew to Las Vegas and the nuptials were performed at the Wee Kirk O'The Heather wedding chapel. The moderately happy newlyweds honeymooned at Harrah's then embarked on their passionless future.

A late spring drizzle had turned into a veritable downpour as Roy navigated the eight miles necessary to make it home from the office. Thick raindrops hammered the sunroof of his Honda hatchback as the windshield wipers struggled to clear enough water to provide a decent view of the road. Once in the house, he couldn't locate his wife. After shouting her name several times, a low, muffled response came from down the hallway. To his astonishment, he discovered Maggie curled up inside the Maytag dryer, head down, shoulders hunched over.

After helping her step onto the stone tiled floor, he asked what she was doing in the machine. "I wanted to see how clothing feels when it's in that claustrophobic space," she explained in a hushed tone as if some disreputable secret had been exposed.

Roy fell silent for a few surreal moments. Comparing laundry to food items was outlandish enough, but spending time inside a cramped dryer was very different. He inquired, in a condescending manner, "Do you really think clothing can feel?"

"Of course not," Maggie said. "You're getting damp leaves all over the floor, Roy. Give me your wet clothes and I'll wash them."

"Have you considered the possibility that you might need help?" he asked.

"I've been doing our laundry for six years without any help and I don't see why I would need it now."

The couple lapsed into silence and ate their turkey meatloaf before falling into a gradual haze in front of the TV.

Maggie had majored in art history despite the fact that she wasn't terribly enthusiastic about the subject. Her college acquaintances who majored in medicine or law or political science were passionate about their choices; they felt driven to succeed. But that fervent ambition eluded Maggie. There was nothing she was really good at except caring for fabrics. Still, she studied diligently, got her degree and eventually landed a position at a small art gallery. Her initial excitement turned to indifference in record time, and this new member of the work force found herself falling asleep on the job. Maggie accepted the fact that she was dying a slow death of resignation and often wondered if Allison Husk had the right idea by putting an end to the agonizing monotony.

Maggie was nowhere to be found when Roy returned home from the office on the Wednesday before Easter Sunday. He let out a hearty sigh when he discovered the laundry room inhabited by denims spinning around in the dryer and no trace of Maggie in either machine. When he called her name, the massive mound of clothing in the corner of the room began to move, like an ant colony, as Maggie dug her way partially out from under the warm, dry garments.

"I must've fallen asleep," she softly said, her face beaming with the glow of a woman who had just awakened next to her beloved.

"Under the clothes?"

"They've been washed and dried," Maggie said, savoring the warmth of a pair of polar fleece pajamas hanging off her head.

"When are we eating?" Roy barked.

Thankfully, the frozen spinach and artichoke pizza took a mere five minutes to heat. Once Maggie and Roy took seats at the dining room table, Roy asked his wife why she seemed to be doing laundry every single day.

"My hours were cut at the museum," she admitted, "so I decided to make a little money by doing laundry for some neighbors."

With an icy calm, Roy repeated the words he couldn't believe he'd just heard. "Doing laundry. For which neighbors?"

"Just the ones on our street."

"Could you give me a few names, please?"

"The Fletchers, the Foleys, Hollis Broussard, the Landers, the Sanders, Nunnally Goodall, Donna Jean Jarvis, Lyla Newberg, the Gittermans, Joyce Kichenoff, Edna and Earl Monroe."

After taking a large, forceful bite of his pizza, a thick piece of dough became lodged in Roy's throat. He tried to swallow it but couldn't, tried to spit it out but couldn't. Panicked, he pointed to his neck as Maggie wondered if she should rush over and perform the Heimlich maneuver. Although Roy's face was turning a shade of red very close to crimson, Maggie didn't move a muscle. (She wasn't sure if this was a conscious decision or an involuntary response that rendered her immobile.) Luckily for Roy, he managed to cough in the nick of time. The dough flew from his mouth onto the napkin in Maggie's lap like a cannonball. She picked it up and calmly placed it on the table, next to the vase of artificial flowers Roy had given her on Valentine's Day. (He told her they'd last longer than real ones.)

"Maggie," Roy sternly said as soon as oxygen resumed passing through his airways, "I think it's time to have you evaluated."

"Like a rare coin?" she asked.

"No, not like that," he responded, glaring at Maggie and deciding to postpone this particular conversation until after Easter. Not another word was spoken for the rest of the meal, but Maggie didn't care, though she did wonder if Roy realized his wife hadn't planned to save him from choking to death at the dinner table.

The following evening, Maggie stood in the laundry room, folding, when an epiphany occurred. She realized that sniffing a hot towel straight from the dryer felt like lying in a field of lilies. She understood that the strong, clean scent of bleach aroused her in an inexplicable way. Laundry was her art. It was security, nourishment, sensuality. It was beginning anew with a perfectly clean slate.

When Roy entered the house, he instantly spotted a line of a half dozen baskets, overflowing with grimy, soiled garments, hugging the narrow hallway leading to the laundry room. "Maggie?" he shouted. "What is all this?"

"Laundry, of course," Maggie replied, stepping out from the laundry room. "You know what I feel like, Roy? A surrogate mother who's given birth to a warm load of cottons. Then I hand the newborns over to someone who'll wear them and care for them until it's time to do the routine all over again. These children never leave me. They always come back."

Roy glanced around the room. "Is there a hidden camera here?" he asked.

"I'm continuing a great cultural tradition that dates back centuries. In the beginning, laundry was done in lakes and streams," she explained in her museum voice. "Women used wooden clubs to beat the dirt out onto the rocks. Then came the Industrial Revolution which completely changed laundry technology. Now give me your shirt."

"Listen carefully, Maggie." Seething with anger, Roy peered at one full basket after the next as if inspecting an enemy line-up. Maggie swept the basket closest to her into her arms like she was protecting a small child. "It's either me or the laundry," he said.

"Don't make me choose, Roy."

"You have two seconds," he insisted. Five seconds later, Roy's left arm zoomed toward Maggie's face like a baseball bat. Maggie didn't wince; there wasn't time. She allowed the attack to happen, just as she allowed her body to fall into the laundry basket of Donna Jean Jarvis. Roy's open hand had slammed her teeth, and blood dripped from her mouth onto the gathered ruffles of Donna Jean's gingham apron. Luckily, Maggie knew that dousing in hydrogen peroxide then rinsing in cold water was a surefire way to remove blood stains.

Shaken and unnerved, Roy ran to the front door as if fleeing the scene of a crime. He didn't dare look back; he could hardly believe what he had just done.

The following afternoon, Maggie was greeting a group of Malaysian guests at the art museum when she noticed Kyle Fletcher examining an abstract painting. Instantly recognizing the pinstripe polo shirt on his wiry body, Maggie was flooded with emotion. She'd been doing neighborhood laundry for several weeks, but she'd never seen an actual article of clothing she'd washed on someone's skin. Maggie was so moved, so overcome, that she threw her arms around one of her Malaysian guests who returned the embrace with fervor.

Word of Maggie's moonlighting gradually spread through the entire town, and before long she was inundated with business. The museum director accepted Maggie's resignation and even threw a small farewell party in her honor.

Roy moved into a decidedly nondescript one-bedroom apartment with little direct sunlight and no laundry facilities. He began to eat fast food on a daily basis and drink himself to sleep nightly.

With the profits from her burgeoning business, Maggie bought three brand new front load washers and two additional dryers. She also removed the artificial flowers from the dining room table and replaced them every few days with fresh daffodils.

As the sun began to set on an ordinary Tuesday, the doorbell rang. It came as a shock to see a forlorn, disheveled Roy standing on the welcome mat, carrying a large basket filled with dirty clothes. "Hello, Maggie," he quietly said.

"Do you need me to do your laundry?" she asked. "Is that why you're here?" There would be no phony smiles, no fake pleasantries.

"I do need that," he responded, his voice shaky. It was obvious he wanted more from Maggie than her professional services. "I also thought we could talk." The regret in his voice matched the vulnerability in the man's eyes.

As Maggie measured the proper amount of detergent for each load, Roy stood in the doorway of the laundry room, listening to the whirl of the dryer. "I can hardly believe you started your own business," he said.

"Are you saying you're proud of me?" she asked.

"I suppose I am." This was a side of Roy that Maggie had only seen once—when his younger sister survived an attack by a female grizzly bear and fought for her life in a hospital bed. Roy had been filled with so much concern that his emotions broke through the brick wall encasing him. Now, in the doorway of the laundry room, the mortar holding the bricks together was decomposing.

"It makes me happy that you're proud of me," she said.

"I'm not sure I even deserve your forgiveness," he said. "I've acted like a jackass."

"I didn't say I forgive you," Maggie explained. "I just said I'm glad you're proud."

"Right," he responded, staring at the floor like a child who'd been scolded. A strained silence hung between them, and Roy realized it was up to him to break it. "How about we head to the kitchen for something sweet?" he suggested.

Sipping ginger peach tea and nibbling on bing cherry parfait pie, they gazed at one another with curiosity as the laundry progressed through its cycles. It was Roy who got up to pour more hot water into their mugs. It was Roy who washed the dishes after they finished their snack. Maggie could sense a distinct change in the air, as if a refreshing breeze had begun blowing in her direction.

Later, they stood side by side in the laundry room, erect and formal as strangers on a first date, and removed Roy's piping hot garments from the dryer. Maggie found her husband's shyness endearing. As she folded her green bath towels, he folded his gray boxer shorts. The clearing of Roy's throat alerted Maggie that a topic rich with importance was about to be broached. "Could you teach me the right way to fold a flannel shirt?" he asked.