Swedenborg 27

Sharon added enough coins to the washer and pushed the buttons. The familiar rhythm of the washer began.

She smiled and remembered her mother. Six kids meant constant washing. As the oldest girl, Sharon often got drafted into helping. But the memories were good. The machine churning rhythmically. The smell of the detergent – the same brand she herself still used. Her mother smiling at her, and sometimes humming or even breaking into song.

She sat down and unconsciously began to hum as she took of the book she’d brought to the laundromat. The washer was broken at her apartment building once again, so the trip was necessary.

It was a novel by a British writer whose name she's seen in the paper recently. He was teaching at the university for a year, and she remembered she’d liked his books, so she dug out one she hadn’t read in a long time.

Jack Staples.

As she read and hummed, she gradually became aware of the sensation she was being watched. She looked up.

A man was staring at her from across the laundromat.

Even when he realized she had seen him, he did not look away.

She looked back at her book, feeling flushed.

She was used to being looked at by men. She was not vain, but she knew she was attractive. She even enjoyed the looks sometimes; they were reassuring.

But the look this man was giving her was not one of natural appreciation. His eyes were burning with … Lust? Anger? Hatred?

She didn’t want to look up, just in case he was still staring and take it as an invitation.

“Excuse me,” a low, rough-edged voice said above her.

Startled, she looked up to see him standing there. His eyes no longer burned. The look in them was pleading, with a hint of pain. She still felt unease, but now with a touch of pity.

“This isn’t a pickup line or anything,” he half mumbled. He looked away from her face and went on, “but I’ve been trying to get some stains out of my clothes. Do you know what would work?”

He held up a shirt and a sheet. The stains were blood.

As a nurse, she had to deal with blood stains on her own clothes many times.

“I try to get it out right away,” she said, her voice taking on a calm, clinical tone. “But if it dries, sometimes hydrogen peroxide works. You have to make sure the clothes are color fast first, because it can bleach them. The sheet should be okay. I don’t know about the shirt.”

“Hydrogen peroxide,” he repeated.

“Yes. It’s easy to find. I’ve also heard of people using water, a quart or so, with a small amount of hand soap and ammonia. But try peroxide. And don’t forget to test it first, like on a corner.”

She smiled, trying to look at reassuring – and at ease.

The man looked at his clothes.

“I cut myself,” he suddenly explained. “I was carving some meat. It got on my clothes. I put a bandage on but it leaked when I went to bed.”

He hesitated, and then added, “Hydrogen peroxide. Thanks.”

He went back to his bench. He glanced at her quickly, repeatedly, tying not to stare.

She was pretty. Dark hair. A full face. Something about it suggested Native American.

When he had gone over he had half hoped that maybe …,

But he knew where things would end up. He’d say or do something stupid.

He looked at the stains on the sheet. Stupid excuse. Carving meat. But then it struck him as funny, and he chuckled. A low, guttural chuckle. He snorted.

God, I’d even scare myself.

He glanced at the woman. She was reading again. Her eyes flicked up, looking at him, then back at her book. He smiled, and then scowled.

He threw the clothes into a washer, stains and all. He put in the money, sat down, looked at her. Looked away. He got up and hurried across the street to a drug store. He quickly walked up and down some aisles. Then he spotted a young woman who was studying hair coloring.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She looked at him suspiciously, holding her shopping basket in front of her.

“I’m trying to find hydrogen peroxide,” he said quickly. “Do you know where it is?”

“No," she said tensely. “You should ask one of the clerks.”

He started back to the pharmacy desk, changed his mind, walked over the checkout. There was a line. He walked up the hair coloring aisle. The woman had moved to another aisle. She looked at him, and then moved toward the pharmacy,

He turned and headed back toward the front counter. Still a line. The clerk looked up at him nervously. A man in line turned and looked at him, then back at the clerk.

He hurried out of the store and back to the Laundromat.

The pretty dark-haired woman was gone.

He stepped out of the store and looked both ways. No sign of her.

He went back in and sat on a bench.

His wash was still swirling. He watched it go round and round. Round and round.

His felt his jaw clench. He rubbed his hands anxiously.

Hurry up, he found himself thinking at the washer.

He closed his eyes. He could see blood.

Pax et bonum