The Weight of Another Hand

The industrial dryer vents steam smelling of cheap detergent. The fluorescents buzz, casting a green sheen over the cracked linoleum floor of the laundrette. Near the folding table sits a terrier mix; its dark eyes do not blink. I keep checking the empty changing room, a low certainty pressing down, the knowledge that I left the brass key on the counter inside the third room. The dog lifts its head, weight resting on its forelegs. My hand feels heavy, bearing the exact mass of a stranger's hand—knuckles swollen, skin pale—a weight that settles deep in my palm. I turn to the humming industrial washer, its metal drum radiating a deep, incorrect warmth. I cannot identify what I left behind.