The rhythmic heavy thud of 32 industrial speed queen washing machines vibrating against a cracked lenolum floor was the only sound that made sense to me anymore. I sat on a bolted down fiberglass chair in the corner of the suburban neighborhood laundromat watching the digital countdown on machine number 14 0412.
The fluorescent lights above hummed at a frequency that irritated the back of my teeth. My high-end washer at my apartment had failed catastrophically at 5:00 a.m. A blown water intake valve. The resulting puddle had disrupted my morning schedule by exactly 42 minutes, forcing me into this brightly lit purgatory on a Tuesday night.
I prefer order. My life as a forensic accountant relies on the absolute certainty that numbers do not lie. Humans lie. Spreadsheets merely wait to be understood. I had my laundry basket perfectly arranged beside me. Darks separated from lights. Heavy fabrics isolated from delicates. Calibration. Precision.
It kept the void at bay. The bell above the glass door chimed a sharp dissonant sound that cut through the mechanical drone. A woman walked in. The word walked was entirely inadequate. She carried a massive overflowing woven plastic basket that seemed to be actively fighting her. She was older than me, maybe late30s, with dark hair escaping a messy clip and a plain black knit top with a smudge of what looked like white flower near the collar.
