Page 8 of Below the Shadow of the City

I sigh. “Dude, it’s fine, it’s not like I’m an ax murderer.”

He laughs a bit at the line. “Seriously, I’ll come back later. You’re good.” Then the silence returns.

This time, curiosity wins and I walk to open the door. It’s locked. He really doesn’t want to be in the same place as me. Ten more minutes go by and my own load is ready to be moved to the dryer. I could be kind and do the same for this stranger. It could serve as a peace offering since I apparently threw a wrench in his late night plans.

Quarters slide into the dryer and the tumbling rumbles the ground a bit. I glance again at the load sitting in the washer and back at the change in my palm. It’s the right thing to do, I’ve somehow inconvenienced him. I can spare the quarters. If he’s going to be a dick about a good deed, that’s on him and his conscience.

Maybe he’s in the nude, I think, he’s washing ALL of his laundry. Logically, it’s the best explanation, why else would this guy be hiding out? Unless he’s a trigger-shy serial killer. Which if that’s the case I’ll gladly let him wrestle with that on his own.

I reach into the washer of his laundry and pull out the first bundle of wet fabric. It plunks into the dryer with a thud. Laundry is deeply personal, and I do my best to not gaze at any particular item too long. His clothes are certainly meant to hang on a large frame, that much can be gathered with little investigation.

There’s the typical male wardrobe fare, plaid boxer shorts, t-shirts, and jeans. I try not to invade much further, but as I toss the last few pieces in I notice one of his pairs of pants has a carefully cut and serged hole in the back. None of my business.

I slam the dryer door and start the cycle then return to my resting place. After another ten minutes, the door opens a crack again.

“Still here,” I call to the mystery figure. “I started the dryer for you, you have forty-three minutes.”

“Oh, um, thanks? That was really nice of you,” he stutters a bit, but seems genuinely warmed by the gesture. Not a dick, and probably not a serial killer, I gather.

“Any particular reason you’re hiding out? Doing laundry butt naked?” I quietly suggest, assuming he can’t hear me say it.

“That is…” He takes a too-long pause. “...Exactly what I’m doing.” Fuck, he heard me? There’s a shuffling sound from behind the door, he’s stirring, “but I promise. I’m not a creep.”

“Wait, what? I was just kidding I didn’t think—” I sputter out.

“No, no, it’s weird. I know. That’s why I’m doing it right now. Because I assumed I’d be alone. And…I’m not uh…totally in the nude.”

“Oh my god?” I feel my face grow hot, my fingers find the pepper spray again.

“Fuck, you’re right. There’s no normal way to go about this, is there?” He stammers.

“No, but I like the hole you keep digging for yourself here.” He’s definitely made this weirder now. “I assumed I’d be the only one doing laundry right now.”

“So did I,” he laughs, it’s a bubbling chuckle that eases out of him.

There’s a short silence from the other side of the door, but I sense he’s still standing there. I resume reading, though reading is more like skimming over paragraphs and rereading them. His presence is distracting. How can I not be thinking about a guy naked on the other side of a door? Especially when he’s more or less lurking in a dank basement. He’s insisted he’s not weird, but his behavior is certainly bizarre.

“So,” he starts after the silence stretches into something teetering on the edge of uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re okay if I hang out over here?” A barely visible shadow moves about from his side of the door, the half inch opening reveals very little.

I shut my book and lay it across my lap. “Well, what else have you been doing while your laundry is running? You can’t really go anywhere in your…condition.”

He laughs again, “The hallway is pretty secluded. I brought a book, but quite frankly it hasn’t been all that enjoyable.” He has a hot voice, not that it’s much to go off of.

It’s oddly gruff, an odd contrast to the insecurity in his tone. I’m probably projecting, building this character in my head based off of a few pieces of laundry and a distant voice. I’m lonely, and have been feeling lonely for a while. Of course I’m craving a little human connection, even if it is in the middle of the night. With a supposedly naked stranger. In my laundry room.

“Mine is god-awful,” I retort.

“What’s yours?” he asks curiously.

“Some corporate inspirational bullshit I have to read for work. Yours?”

“Les Miserables,” he says in a flawless and deep French accent. My core twitches. Oh, that did something for me. Sleep deprivation has made me both crazy and a little lust-filled.

“Depressing,” I flatly answer, shoving down the sparkle of desire and chewing at my lip a bit.

“Very. I much prefer the musical, I’ve decided. Not that it’s any less depressing, but at least they’re singing through their sadness. And it’s a little more entertaining.”

The laundry continues tumbling. I watch it through the dryer doors since there’s no gaze to meet. I build an image in my head of the voice I’m speaking with, someone tall, if the clothes gave anything away. Kind eyes, messy hair, maybe a crooked smile or some other quirk that makes him barely short of perfect.