The Fluorescent Hum of Laundromat

The green enamel cup sits on the folding table. It is four a.m. The industrial dryer drums spin out the rhythm of the fluorescent hum. I hold the photograph; my face appears faint, a pale smudge just under the salt-stained edges. My hand begins to feel heavy, the weight settling on it, wrong. It is the weight of a person who stood here minutes ago, a pressure that anchors my wrist to something dense. I check the change machine; it flashes 1997. The industrial scent of detergent mixes with the cold air. I turn away from the array of blinking washing machines. I forget what I needed to find. My hand keeps the unfamiliar weight.