Laundry Room Boy

She met him in the laundry room. Her laundry room boy. No. A laundry room boy. haha.



Walking down the flourescent-lit hallways at two am, she hears the echoes of a strumming guitar, beneath the whirs of the dryers and washing machines, surrounded by the whitewashed walls which never talk back (it was their inside joke).

She walked past him. He strummed the guitar, providing the background music as she emptied the dryer's contents into her green laundry bag. She stared at the back of his head, watching his hair sway. He turned and put down his guitar.

"Hello."

She made fun of his vegetarian diet, he called her on her hypocritical bullshit. They had an informal game of musical chairs, moving from chair to the top of the dryer back to the chair. She fidgeted with her hands. He wrote his name on a piece of paper. She grasped the paper in her hand and wore it down methodically. She was awkward, she was sleepy. He was amused, he was snarky.


She twisted the paper in her fingers. He noticed the bracelet on her arm. He touched her wrist. Her heart skipped, feeling his warm fingers pressing against her skin.

She had never been touched without flinching. Until now.


He noticed her slippers. He touched her ankle. She was done for.