The Washer Machine Clock

The fluorescent lights hum a pitch too high for four in the morning. I sit on the cracked vinyl bench, the tooth heavy between my fingers, clean white enamel. The scent of industrial soap and stale copper fills the air. I was waiting for something, I remember the purpose, but the purpose is gone now, folded into the stack of wet quarters. A woman folds laundry at the next station, her movements precise, efficient. She brushes past me; her sleeve catches my elbow. A sudden, much smaller version of her stands near the folding table, wearing a uniform identical to hers, but the sleeves stop at the wrist bones. She watches my hand holding the tooth. The weight of the metal drying rack is wrong; it holds less weight than it should. The sister stands silent, her gaze fixed on the water stain map spread across the laundrette floor.