I sit there watching my clothes mingle with water and detergent inside of the front-loader washing machine. Back and forth the waves swisch and schwasch. In the background, a whirring and moaning sound from the coin-operated clothes dryers takes the predominant presence. There is the occasional siren from a police car or fire truck, but everything returns to a slow moan.
In the Laundromat, the washing machine is tan, the light is florescent, and the floor tiles are a stained white. The light occasionally flickers, making the washing machine appear a gray that is more white than black. The only other light present is the street lamp.
The washing machine changes cycle.
No one comes to the Laundromat this late at night. I hang out here often. The drones, the lights, and the repetitious imperfections make me forget what has happened in my day. This place makes me tired. It reaffirms that I am alive. The discordant music of the machines and the warmth are calming.
The exhaust of the clothes dryer empties outside, but the sweet fumes find their way back into the Laundromat. Fabric softener, Cheer laundry detergent, and Clorox all mix to form a fantastic fragrance. I have been coming to this Laundromat for a year now, so for me, the scent has faded. The floor used to have different degrees of filth, but I cannot see the difference anymore.
The washing machine finishes.
My time here is limited. It is almost over. Eventually, I will have to fold the clothes and leave here. I will leave the droning washers, the monotonous dryers, and the dirty floors, and subject myself to the dynamic world. I will feel dead comparably to my fellow humans. I will contemplate ending it all multiple times and I will visit the Laundromat to feel good, but in the end, I will always come to the end of a cycle.
No comments:
Post a Comment