Laundry

   Everything is packed now; stowed away in the black bag. I fit the bottle of detergent in at the end and tie off the knot neatly. I wish for the door to open or for at least a commotion, for something else to happen, so I can have an excuse to ask questions. The knot is secured thrice, then again. There barely enough rope left for me to use as a handle. I lean forward over my bag and rest my weight there for a moment, letting myself drip forward until my hair just about brushes the polished wood of the bench. Before I go I’ll buy something from the vending machine, something sweet to eat on my way back to Adam’s. Man, I need a little sugar in my system. The unused change I fished out from Adam’s coin jar sits heavily at the bottom of my pockets, and as I stand they clash and jingle.

   Making my way over to the vender, I pass by the lovebirds that came in earlier. They perch giggling in their corner of the store. The boy looms over the girl as he helps her measure the correct amount of powdered soap to use. Somehow, this is funny to them –really, really funny. I make it to the glass case, but not without peeping back at the two a few times. In front of me there are rows and rows of sugary treats, as well as crisps to choose from. Refreshingly enough, none of these packages advertise being a healthy alternative. I take my time looking through my options and do not notice the footsteps approaching me. My fingers insert the coins and order automatically, as I divert my attention to something else ­–someone is beside me, blocking the light coming from the rest of the store. Without my knowing, the couple had made their way up to the back door. They’re smiling at me now from the threshold. They’re smiling the smile that strangers do when you pass them on the sidewalk, a reserved but polite one as if to say “Hello. I don’t want to strike up conversation but I want you to like me for the two seconds we will smile at each other.” They do not wait for me to return the gestures before shifting into the back room.

   I try to look past the couple, to see what is beyond the door, but the girl –so cleverly with her hair, so cleverly with her thighs– blocks my every attempt. The door swings shut with a smug click. I stand very still, so still, moving so little, breathing so lightly, that I think I can hear the others on the far side of the door. At first there’s only a low hum, something like busy chatter; then a clicking, or settling, perhaps chairs being rested in; a hum again, and now a soft thud accompanied by a crinkling. The humming repeats, then the click as well. I knit my brows together, pulling my face tight for a moment. What is beyond the door? What were those noises? Where are the fat man and the one who was flirting with the clerk? The clerk. The clerk must know what the door is hiding. Well she tell me? It’s not a secret, right? This is a laundromat. She’ll tell me. I’ll just casually mention it. Yes, when I pass by to leave. Yes, on my way out. I’ll ask her about something else first to not seem weird or out of the blue. Yes, maybe for a business card, their usual hours, if they have membership discoun-

   “Is there a problem with the machine?” The girl behind the counter is looking at me now; her magazine is closed and on the pile. She reaches for another from off the rack behind her.

   “I’m sorry?” I call back.

   Her face disappears in an old edition of US Weekly. “Did you get what you paid for?”