The Machine in the Corner

The laundromat on Valencia Street is always too warm. I was folding my shirts when the machine in the corner started to shake.

A woman ran over and hit it twice. It stopped.

“It does that,” I said. “You have to be nice to it.”

She laughed. “Nobody told me the rules.”

We waited together. She was new to the city, but I'd been here six years. I told her which machines eat your quarters and which ones don't.

When her clothes were dry, she said thanks and left.

I didn't get her name. But that night the laundromat felt a little less lonely.

Elementary

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The laundromat on Valencia Street is always too warm. I was folding my shirts when the machine in the corner started to shake.

A woman ran over and hit it twice. It stopped.

“It does that,” I said. “You have to be nice to it.”

She laughed. “Nobody told me the rules.”

We waited together. She was new to the city, but I'd been here six years. I told her which machines eat your quarters and which ones don't.

When her clothes were dry, she said thanks and left.

I didn't get her name. But that night the laundromat felt a little less lonely.