The Laundromat at Four AM

The fluorescent lights hum above the industrial washers, casting a wet sheen on the linoleum floor. I carry the weight of a stack of mismatched sweaters, the wool cool against my palms. A film projector sits on the counter, its single bulb throwing beams onto a patch of yellow wallpaper, the mechanism clicking empty cycles. I smell bleach and old copper, a scent that stays fixed in the back of the throat. Behind the folding tables, a door opens onto a deeper door, framed in dark oak. I hear the soft scrape of rubber shoes on tile from the passage, a sound that implies someone watches from inside the threshold. I turn toward the sound, knowing the waiting is gentle, a kind of quiet attention. The other door breathes a cool draft that touches my skin.