The hardest part of life is laundry, the endless piles of laundry that never end. The folding, ironing, putting it away, only to do another load. And another load, and another load. Even with death occurs, disease, or heartbreak, you'll still have to do the laundry. Until the day you die you'll be folding laundry. There are no breaks. A break from laundry means piles build in the corners and the kids no longer have clean underwear, your husband goes to work in mismatching shirts. Taking a break means your whole household falls into chaos. I shouldn't complain. A hundred years ago they had to wash clothes by hand. Yet they also didn't own so many clothes, so much stuff that needs to be washed. They probably didn't buy socks every time they got mismatched in the dryer. The whole house is just drowning in socks. Why do the kids need thirty outfits each? Why do we own so many comforters?

Brian Novack stepped out of the capsule into the basement of a dark warehouse that smelled like sulfur. There was the noise of heavy machinery, and hum of electricity above him and he realized that the mill was up and working. It had closed in 1993 and had sat empty for thirty years; which means he had made it. He pulled his phone out of the front pocket of his Carhartt and glanced at the screen, right above his daughter's brown eyes he read Tuesday March 13th 1984, 3:08pm. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and headed for the stairwell.

His job assignment was simple; "to document American society in the year 1984 with a focus on the contrast observed from the modern era" as stated in the contract. The whole assignment seemed odd; while most billionaires were trying to get to space Styler Enterprises wanted to research the past, and out of all the thousands of years to choose they chose 1984. There must be others assigned to different years, that's the only explanation why they picked such a dull one. Or maybe they were fixated on Orwell. Who knows, who cares, he was getting paid enough to pay off his mortgage and send his kid to college, maybe even pay back those student loans he'd ignored for the last six years. They offered him six figures under the table, in addition to paying for all relocation expenses and a monthly stipend to his family, who wasn't allowed to come with him. His wife didn't seem to mind giving up her husband for a year, she'd barely look up from her phone long enough to notice he was gone. No matter they needed the money, but that wasn't the only appeal. He wanted to get away. He wasn't sure why or what he was getting away from but his life felt like a mere silhouette of what it was suppose to be. Something was missing and he wasn't sure what.

He stepped outside from the back stairwell and walked onto the steel yard, and immediately taken back by the difference. This was an empty lot in 2023, filled with trash and abandoned grocery carts. Yet now it was filled with activity. He walked out onto the street and saw the stores were working businesses. All but one had been boarded up, and like most stripe malls in America were empty and decaying. He reached for his phone to take a picture then hesitated. Though his boss requested communication via his phone he emphasized the importance of discretion. He feared knowledge of the phone could disrupt the present, like a butterfly effect. Someone would see him if he started taking pictures with it, he couldn't risk it. He crossed the street to the corner store and bought five disposable ones. He hadn't used a disposable camera since he was kid.

He focused in on the steel mill and clicked a photo. Then turned to the shops busy with customers. As he focused on the subjects of his photos he realized how free he felt to just take the pictures. Not analyzing every shot after its taken, worrying about how many likes it will get on Facebook. It felt freeing. He turned the corner of the street to the residential section. Kids were riding on their bikes, people sitting on porches laughing with their neighbors, thriller was playing from a boombox. He wasn't sure what he was looking at, it seemed so alien. People were present, in the moment, together. Maybe this was what was missing.

It tastes like ash, and smoke, the taste so thick you can't taste the meat. You bite through the blackened skin trying to salvage the meal, yet can't get past the taste. It was a meal you planned and looked forward to, even spent extra money at the grocery store for the finest cut of meat. And now it's a piece of charred waste. It tastes like loss, it tastes like defeat. And all you can do is scrape your plate into the trashcan.

$7500 and you think that would be enough. That was just your price tag. Then the 5 acre home, the food, the luxurious clothes you refuse to wear, and world renown trainers (but who am I kidding I trained you). This isn't my type of game, yet I'm still in it for you. You have no idea how much I slave for you, how much I love you. Why can't you love me? Because love is an emotion that you can feel, and I accept it. You show your love through your loyalty, even if that loyalty's to breakfast. You show your love through your trust and I respect it. You trust me enough to lead you from the herd, and if that isn't love I don't know what love is.