Laundry
or
Two Neurotics Almost Have Sex
[special thanks to heartlessfujo for her editorial support and expertise]
He walks into the room and freezes. She's standing there leaning against the juddering machine, jabbing at the controls. Like she's mad at them.
The dryer rumbles in the corner, tumbling what he thinks must be a bag of nickels. The clanking reverberations off the cinder block walls, the droning of the machine's motor, and the blanket-like humidity conspire to mask his entrance. He could just leave quietly right now. He wouldn't have to explain anything.
She swats the washer's lid up, clearly irritated. As the machine grinds to a halt, she looks up, sees him. Their eyes meet across the room, and something like panic flickers over each of their faces for a fraction of a second. Like they got caught.
A beat passes. The nickels clang a couple of times.
He puts on his "surprised" face, says he didn't expect to find anyone in here at four a.m. He tries casually to ignore what's in his hand.
She puts on a convincing smile, one that she's practiced. One that comforts the freshmen as they try to adjust to the emotional turmoil of moving into a residence hall, away from home for the first time. She hopes it will be enough to distract from the red puffiness around her eyes. She's not sure if it would be better if he thought his RA was high, or if he knew the truth. Decides to turn on the charm. She waves.
He waves back, polite reflexes overriding his attempt at subterfuge. His arm skids to a stop mid-wave, like that might somehow help his predicament. He sees her eyes go wide as she notices his raised hand. But there's something else there too. His embarrassment takes a backseat for a moment. Has she been crying? But then her eyes soften and the smile on her lips relaxes into a grin that's more at home on her face.
She chokes down a giggle, pretends to clear her throat. She reminds herself that even though she's several years older than him, she's still just a student like he is. But she's also a trusted employee of the Housing and Dining department. She's supposed to comport herself as a professional. But maybe because of the day she's had- or hell, even the week- something else inside her pushes back. Another part of her that wants something.
She nods for him to come closer so they can hear each other over the nickels.
He shuffles a few steps to where she stands at the machine, obviously embarrassed about being caught carrying a tiny pair of sexy women's underwear through the dorm in the middle of the night. He tries to play it cool. Stammers "I'm... sorry." He realizes, only too late, that his mouth was not in on his "cool" plan.
Another beat passes. She knits her brow, her smile transforming into something like a frown, or maybe a pout. She says "Thank you" with that lilting semi-whine that's universally understood to mean "you're so sweet." Kind of condescending. She says it on autopilot. But when she pauses to actually think about it, he really is kind of sweet. One of her freshmen, unassuming but polite, not what you'd call a ladies' man. That other part of her thinks he might even be a virgin, maybe?
She breaks from her reverie, tells him that she thought she'd never see them again. He realizes she's talking about the panties. He asks if these are *hers*, seeming almost incredulous at the idea. She's pretty sure he doesn't imagine her as "the type" to own such skimpy, gauzy things. That other part of her might want to prove him wrong.
It occurs to her that she hasn't answered his question. She explains that some asshole dude-bros like to swipe the more choice bits of women's intimate apparel from the laundry when nobody's looking. Show them off as counterfeit fuck trophies. Or leave them hanging on some chump's door handle to make him think he has a secret sex crush.
He doesn't chime in to mention that he's apparently the chump tonight. He nods, showing that he understands. But with a scowl, showing that he disapproves. He's pretty sure he's pulling that off.
Another beat passes. The nickels keep thrashing about.
"Soooo," she says, the word dropping in pitch as it stretches on. Asks if he's going to keep them, or can she have them back? That other part of her wonders which answer she'd prefer.
He screws up his face, asks with mock surprise if he's still holding those. He tells her that yeah, for sure she can have them back. They're hers after all. They are his hand in her panties. No. *Her* panties in *his* hand. These are her ... hers. Yes.
He wonders how much of that he actually said out loud, decides to just pretend that it came out better than he imagined.
She looks him over as he flounders. His white pocket t-shirt snug on his frame. His flannel pajama pants a little too on-the-nose for a college student. It's OK, he's new. He's kind of adorable, with his awkward demeanor and wholesome mid-western looks. Kind of a Clark Kent vibe.
He moves to her side of the machine, dropping the item in question into her basket with the rest of her unwashed laundry. She thanks him, turns back to her chore. He steps back, releases a breath he doesn't remember he was holding. Not sure what to do now, he scans the stuff she's piled on the table. Notes a stack of well-worn textbooks among the more mundane trappings of laundry day, an intimidating Organizational Behavior tome lying open, the pages brutally hi-lited.
Movement draws his attention back to her. She's loading her dirty things into the washing machine, turning side-on to him as she does it. But she doesn't just lean down to the basket at her feet. She squats with her knees together, grabs a handful. Levers her way upright, flexing her legs. Drops the clothes into the washer. Repeats. It looks like a workout routine, a lot more effort than is really called for, he thinks.
Before tonight, he hadn't really *seen* her. Not as anything besides her position, anyway. She organizes and keeps an eye on people, holds them responsible for the rules. She's basically an adult. But right now he sees her. Sees a set of curves, bundled in the dubious combination of short-shorts and an oversized sweatshirt bearing the emblem of some other university. Long, substantial legs that have clearly made many treks up the mountainous stairs to the library. Bare ankles that disappear into well-worn canvas sneakers. He watches her turn her back to him and start putting soap in the machine, bending slightly at the waist. The hem of her alarmingly thin short-shorts creep ever so slightly northward.
But as much as he wants to stay for the show, he doesn't want to look like a creep. He shakes off his ogling and retreats toward the exit.
Almost makes it to the door.
"God Dammit!"
The metal clang of a washer lid banging shut booms through the cramped, concrete box of a room, much louder than she would have liked.
Startled, he snaps around to see what happened. Did he do something wrong? Sees her fighting with the controls again. The look on her face says she's probably losing the battle.
He asks her if something is wrong, practically having to yell it over the din of the dryer and its nickels. She twists around to face him. Shushes him more harshly than she intends to. He's a little taken aback, partially at her rebuke, but mostly at the transformation of her face. The color in her cheeks is raised, her brow knit. She's a million miles away from the well-put-together woman he'd just encountered.
A beat passes. She waves him over, tells him she doesn't want to wake up the whole floor. He doubts anyone, anywhere could hear them over those goddamn nickels, but keeps the thought to himself. With her hand retracted into the sleeve of her cavernous sweatshirt, she rubs an eye and swipes some stray hairs off her forehead. Says that she didn't mean to go all schoolmarm on him. He waves it off. Again he asks what's wrong.
She growls a little, and complains that it's fucking ridiculous to have to stay up all night doing laundry. He asks why she has to. She pauses, not sure if she should go into it. She's not inclined to let one of her residents see how close she is to the end of her rope. How frayed it is.
She says it's not really the laundry, it's more that she doesn't have time for *anything.* That she's always going from one responsibility to the next. Classes, labs, club meetings, work-study, RA shit. Sometimes it's all just... too much. Tells him that she's got a pile of laundry tonight, a heap of cramming to do before finals, and a mountain of student debt looming over her when she graduates next semester. And it feels like everything is conspiring to be as difficult as possible, to thwart even her most trivial efforts. She swipes at her face again, lets out a long breath from puffed cheeks, says that she just needs something to go right. Something...else. That other part of her knows she'll need some help getting it.
He listens, takes it all in. The tension on her face, the strain in her voice, the welling in her eyes. Without even a hint of guile, he asks if there's anything he can do to help.
She automatically says no, the way everybody is programmed to. She repeats, out loud this time, that he's so sweet. She's just tired and shouldn't dump all her problems on him. She thanks him, then turns to grab more clothes from the basket.
He takes the hint. Decides it's time to head for the door before he ebarrasses himself further. Yeah, he should probably go now.
The nickels in the dryer sound like the world's most poorly-maintained freight train.
