Rosalita never stood still behind the counter. Either she was serving a customer or she was doing tasks in the storage area behind. She'd sort incoming dry cleaning onto the carousel by number. She'd carefully write the labels for the laundry bags going out to the washing factory. Even if everything was in order, she'd find something to do like sweep the floor or wash the windows. She was a good worker.
She was also a good girl. She dressed neatly, didn't waste money on fashion fancies, and neither exposed herself to look slutty. Her jeans were cheap ones from GAP, which she tailored herself to fit well. Her t-shirt was equally cheap from Urban Outfitters, but her own tailoring made it hug her body snugly in a very appropriate and not sexual way. Her hair was freshly washed to give the hair strands that sparkle when the light hit it. Even though there was nothing fancy about her ponytail, her hair was juicy and moist because of her youth of 25 years and her healthy diet of lots of produce and fruit. She wore no makeup. Her pride where the white, plastic pearl earrings in both ear lobes. They were simple. She liked simple and elegant. It was all her jewelry.
Her overall appearance was that of a gray mouse. However, if someone would look at her closely, there was a prettiness to her face and a good proportion to her body. With the right makeup, fashion, posture, and confidence in her face, she could have been a knockout.
Jose, the other worker about her age, only two years younger, constantly hit on her. "Rosalita mami! When are you and me going to slang some Netflix at my place?" He gave her a dirty look full of excitement. She knew that he only wanted her pussy. She wanted a real man who would care for her. He was like her a first-generation immigrant, who comfortably mixed Spanish into his English. When he talked to customers and had to focus on only using English words, he had to really put himself together and at attention.
"In your dreams!" she would reply.
"Every night!" he'd reply giving her a dirty look. She knew what he meant. She thought that he'd do it as well. She blushed being uncomfortable with the conversation and stuck her head deeper into the box of freshly washed socks that she was sorting into pairs. "At least, give me some inspiration! Lift your shirt just once for a second!" he pleaded with her. She shook her head. He gave up and walked out with two bags of big laundry bags on his shoulder to make a delivery. She would never be like the other girls who gave in every once in a while.
Their laundry shop was in a pretty neighborhood in Manhattan. The building was made of picturesque red brick, fronted by a black wrought iron fence, and lined by lush London Planetrees with big loaded crowns that spawned the street all the way across. The quiet from traffic invited local residents to ride their bicycles down the street in the middle. The local residents were artsy and intellectual professionals, who liked the pretense of fancy coffee shops and hoity-toity gallery openings, where they'd stand in the street with a skinny glass of wine in their hand, yap endlessly, and barely look at the art.
Her boss handed her a laundry bag for express delivery to a VIP customer. The bag was 27.9 lbs. She was not even a hundred pounds. She was short and skinny. She never complained even when she was given unsuited work. Her attitude was to accept hardships and push herself. She lifted the gray laundry bag into a utility cart that she could push in front of herself. She hurried down the sidewalk to be a fast worker and be back for the next task quickly. She knew that VIP customers were very fickle. The afternoon sidewalk traffic was relatively light. So she could make good progress.
Getting down the stairs into the subway was a struggle. With every stair down, the heavy cart tore her forward. She had to yank back with all her body could give to keep the cart from rolling forward down the next step on its own. That would have been a calamity to see the clean laundry tumble all the way down the stairs to the bottom. It was too heavy for her, but she didn't dare ask for help. She fought on her own and pushed herself beyond what her small body could do. A few strands of smooth hair came undone and hung in her face, while she bit her lip hard during the fight. She was quietly, internally a fierce warrior.
When the yellow R train picked her up, she sat down in the only free spot next to two socialites. They were both white women about thirty years old. Their hair was done up with expensive balayage and keratin treatments. They looked like they were styled to go to a wedding. Their makeup was movie quality. The red lips gave them an air of refinement and exotic. The way the shadows on the cheeks contoured the face through visual illusion into another shape was perfect. They held themselves high with their fingers placed consciously into a pretty shape like trained by a ballerina. The clothes were thousand-dollar pieces with eye-catching patterns, stunningly soft fabric, and dramatic cuts. Their English enunciation was trained to the perfection to have the right timber and resonance.
They only gave Rosalita a quick downward glance, that signaled, "Oh, she doesn't matter. At least, no homeless will sit there now."
They continued their conversation in earshot of Rosalita. "Yes, so there is this sperm meetup way out in Brooklyn on Decatur Street. It's the new hip thing to do. You get to browse whom you want your baby daddy to be. You can see them right in person. There are handsome models, retired D1 athletes, Columbia professors, and of course, you can choose a Goldman Sachs VP. It's like a candy store. You simply check them out and pick one on the spot. Of course, there is also a lot of man trash. But it's no different from a warehouse sale."
"Yeah, I hear you," agreed the other woman with reservation. "But it'll still cost thirty thousand for artificial insemination after you get their sperm. And you never know how many of those you need until it happens."
