Warmth Left Over
The towels you fold lose their light one by one. Only the one on top, where I sit, is still warm. Your hand goes for the next towel and pauses for a moment above the place I sit. That hand doesn't move me, only sweeps once along the towel's edge and goes. I decide not to leave this spot. Until the dried towels are stacked four high, I will sit here a little longer.
I too hung out laundry in the morning and went out, and between the sun coming and going, touched a dried towel. Only the edges were warm; the inside still damp. I remember a cat passing through that gap.