It was hypnotic.
The rising heat. The constant drumbeat. The fluorescent haze.
The atmosphere in the Lansdale County Laundromat was absolutely electric. The wonders of the world could not hold a candle to this fervor.
There was something about the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the Speed Queen Commercial, the beating pulse of the LCL. Few could fathom the excellency of such a creature, the divinity encapsulated in her four-vane polypropylene agitator. Surely, she was not the crem-de-la creme. After all, she was top-loaded, resulting in nearly two-fold of front-load water usage. But for 45 minutes a day, she was his.
He had grown quite fond of Machine 007, keeping strange hours to ensure her availability. He shuddered at the thought of some rando tossing his clothes in the machine, likely neglecting a color catcher.
At this point, it is worth noting that Shane owns a washing machine. At the very least, coparented one. His relationship with his girlfriend had been on a decline since March, gradually sinking into convenience. She had a willowy composure, thinning to the point he could almost see right through her. She was a great nurse, but always sick with worry. He was tired of coming home to a husk and she was tired of being one.
Besides, there were too many children of divorce to leave. The lease wouldn’t expire for another six months, and he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to their Dachshund, Cody. He wanted to believe a split would be amicable, but not everything comes out in the wash.
The bulk of Shane’s formal training was HVAC units — a job which had led him to the Lansdale County Laundromat exactly one month ago. The unit was oversized, but a relatively easy fix. More impactful was the ambience of the place itself. He would stay there forever if he could, if not confined to the intervals between his HVAC gigs. Shane could not put a price on time away from his girlfriend, but $3.99 was beyond a bargain. He liked to imagine he was walking straight through the gates of heaven as he stepped through the door, basking in the white glow.
His stream of consciousness was interrupted by the sweet symphony of beeps and clicks. The rumbling ceased and stillness settled over the Speed Queen Commercial like a layer of dust. He begrudgingly fished his sweatshirt and crew socks out. They were clean — they had always been clean. Nevertheless, the cycle will repeat tomorrow. Was wasting water such a crime? Is a crime of passion a crime at all?
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