in-class exercise 04.02

It took an infinity for my mother to tell her children that the gateway to hell was in the dishwasher drain. She had dealt with this condemnation for years. Protective and bitter over the flames and sulfurous spit vomiting out when she removed the plates and cups, occasionally a casserole. One dinner party, when she felt particularly high-spirited, she gathered the three of us in a white room with four walls and a cockroach, and told us in all composed sincerity the bizarre truth to why we were never allowed to help out with the dishes.