The Laundrette Light Still Glows

The coin slot takes quarters, warm to the touch. Fluorescent bulbs hum a note that vibrates the teeth. I set the heavy, bruised fruit on the folding table; its skin is purple and gives off the smell of cut sugar. I walk past the industrial dryers. The air here smells of bleach and damp cotton, a scent that settles low in the throat.

I turn down the hall, toward the back washrooms. I pause at the door marked 'Storage,' and the room remains lit. It is empty, save for a metal wash tub sitting in the exact spot where I stood moments before. The linoleum floor reflects the sodium lamps, showing my imprint, but the wash tub does not reflect me. The space simply holds the warmth of my weight. A particular ache, a quiet drag behind the sternum, confirms the vacancy. The fruit shifts on the table, its weight an anchor, and I do not know which way to step next.