He must be at least 75. Our eyes meet when I push past him with my overflowing laundry basket, and I cough and look away. If laundromats are such good places to meet people, where are the ones my age? I plop my load down a few machines away and begin sorting colors and counting change.
“Cotton–is it ‘wool’ or ‘permanent press’? My blanket is cotton.” The man is puzzling over the settings on his washer, and I look at mine. “Cotton” is not one of them.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
“‘Wool,’ I guess,” I say. The thing looks woolly enough to me. It seems to be doing fine without my advice, though.
So. Now he thinks he has a friend because I looked at his blanket. He speaks with a lisp, and his voice is soft, maybe even gentle. Actually, it’s not a hard voice to listen to. But I’ve just come to the bottom of my basket and found a cockroach scrambling around inside. How am I going to get it outside so I can step on it?
I fidget. When am I going to study for my test, so I can get through this program, so I won’t have to be a secretary and come to a laundromat for the rest of my life? It’s hard enough to keep up with the homework and a full-time job without these interruptions. I can’t afford the time I’m wasting with this guy. But there’s no stopping him now.
The man looks off out the window. It’s getting dark outside now. Our reflections stare back at us.
But it doesn’t take long to get a blanket out of a dryer. When I look up again, he’s gone.
