Journal Entry 2

   Once inside, however, I can understand why Adam makes the trip out to use this particular laundromat. With walls like floors and floors like ceilings and ceilings like the back of Adam’s hand, I can count more shades of blue than washing machines. Some shades are angry like bruises, two days old, others are mellow. Everything, from the benches to the single vending machine saddled up close to the back of the store, seems tinted with the hue. The clerk behind the counter, though mostly hidden by her stack of magazines, appears to be the only exception. Her uniform is white, professional in gleam and almost clinical in its perfection (despite being deeply creased from lack of movement). The combination of the owner’s choice in decor and the strange sound of muffled rap music playing in the background make for a surreal moment. I linger about, at the front of the store, waiting for the clerk to notice and subsequently greet me, perhaps even direct me to a certain machine like a hostess at a restaurant. (Though I am on no date and the bag of laundry in my arms is no pretty, timid girl). After four pages of POP WEEKLY, my eyes begin to wander, following soon after, my legs. Lugging the sack of cloth with me, I arbitrarily choose aisle three and play eeny, meeny, miny, moe to pick which washer to use.