She sat two machines down, barefoot, reading a battered paperback by the light of her phone. Her sneakers were tied together by their laces and slung over the machine’s handle. Every few seconds, she’d look up at her own churning load—a sea of dark denim and one startling red scarf—as if checking that it was still there. As if the machine might run off with it.
“Start at page one,” she said. “The dog’s fine for a while.” She sat two machines down, barefoot, reading a
“Claire’s. She left in a hurry. Said her cat was having a ‘situational crisis.’ I don’t think she has a cat.” As if the machine might run off with it
“You know,” he gestured to her book, “that’s the one where the dog dies.” She left in a hurry
The dryer beeped. Neither moved.
“I’d offer to walk you back,” he said, “but I’m still learning how to be alone without it feeling like a punishment.”