Fiction: Waiting For Laundry

Waiting For Laundry

There are few things in life more pleasant than waiting for your laundry at the laundromat. There’s the warmth of a room full of dozens of humming machines, the clink of quarters against metal slots, the muddled smell of mildew and detergent, the atmosphere of anticipation. You are rarely alone at the laundromat, but no one talks to you either. It’s the perfect blend of camaraderie and solitude. You sit there, in a thirty-year-old waiting room chair, and stare at the checked tile floor that used to be green and white but is now brown and light brown, and there is nothing in the world but your laundry, and it being either finished or not finished, clean or not clean. There’s a cozy reassurance in your stomach, because in this moment, the world is simple.

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