The failing painter started to fall in love with the laundromat girl. He would linger at the counter a little longer every time he brought in his paint soiled clothes, making small talk. It was five minutes, at the most, that he looked forward to at the end of his day. He debated telling her that he was a house painter rather than an artist – which lie would appeal to her most? Half his pay check was going to laundry, never doing it himself anymore but bringing it up to the counter, to the tall brunette who would take it from him with a shy smile.
Then, when he was just too broke to keep up that routine, he started working in a sketchbook while he did his wash. He made awkward drawings of the laundromat, a ghost of her presence haunting the edges of each page. The bland boxy compositions reminded him of college perspective assignments. Later he added clowns washing knotted handkerchiefs, giant ridiculous polka-dotted shorts, floppy shoes. The clowns really livened things up.
He imagined a time in the future when they would be lovers. He would still bring in his clothes, some of her lovely small things intertwined with his. The laundromat girl would linger over the stains of their lovemaking, remembering the night before, a moment's respite from the heat and noise of all those spinning machines.
