Wrinkles in Time

I wander into the kitchen to check what time it is. The microwave reads five minutes faster than the stove, so I peak at the clock in the living room. It reads 10 minutes to 8, but I have a vague recollection that it was that time on that clock when I started my laundry three hours ago.

The digital clock next to my borrowed bed has to be at least 10 minutes fast, maybe 15, but certainly not more than 20. I know this because it is about ten minutes slower than the alarm clock on the right side of the bed in the master bedroom. The alarm clock on the left side of the head board is half an hour slower than it's twin glaring from the other side of the room.

I lean on the door frame in the office, trying to decide whether the clock there is more likely to be on time or not. It's analog, and one of those that have pictures instead of numbers. If it is a canary past a cardinal o'clock, will my laundry be done in the garage where the clock read fifteen minutes after six when I filled the dryer? I suppose I could wait another long while, until I'm sure my clothes will be dry, but they aren't permanent press, and may wrinkle.

I guess time wrinkles, too. But that's okay. It's better than being permanently pressed.