Laundrette Love | NEON LIT

The washing machine in my flat died on the worst possible day—the day after I'd run out of clean pants. Emergency measures required.

The laundrette on the high street was one of those time-capsule places. Hadn't been updated since the nineties, all pastel colors and machines that sounded like dying animals. At ten PM on a Tuesday, it was empty except for me and her.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting on a plastic chair, watching her clothes spin. Curvy thing in grey joggers and an oversized band t-shirt, dark curly hair pulled up in a messy bun, face fresh without makeup.

"Evening," she said without looking up.

"Evening."

I loaded my stuff—pants, socks, the shirt I'd been saving for interviews—and fed coins into the machine. Then sat down to wait, two chairs away from her.

We watched our clothes spin in silence for ten minutes.

"First time?" she asked eventually.

"What?"

"Here. Never seen you before." She finally looked at me. Green eyes, tired but curious. "I'm here every Tuesday."

"Machine broke. You?"

"Same. Been broke six months. Landlord's a wanker." She shrugged. "I'm Priya."

"Ethan."

"Nice to meet you, Ethan." She went back to watching the spin. "Hour to go, if you want to get a coffee or something."

"There's nowhere open."

"There's the café opposite. Maria keeps it open late for laundrette people. Kind soul."

"You coming?"

She looked at her machine, then at me. "Yeah, alright. Nothing's happening here."

Maria's café was as stuck-in-time as the laundrette—formica tables, plastic chairs, a coffee machine that wheezed ominously. But it was warm, and Maria made proper chai that Priya ordered immediately.

"She knows me," Priya explained. "I'm here a lot."

"Living the dream?"

"Something like that." She wrapped her hands around the mug. "What's your excuse? For being out at ten on a Tuesday?"

"Work thing. Software. Long hours."

"Pays well though?"

"Enough to afford a flat where the washing machine breaks." I shrugged. "You?"

"Teaching assistant. Doesn't pay enough to fix anything." She smiled—tired, but real. "We make quite a pair, yeah?"

We talked. About work, about the neighborhood, about the specific misery of being young in a city that didn't care. By the time our machines were beeping across the road, we'd emptied the teapot and learned more about each other than some people know about their best mates.

"Help me fold?" she asked, heading back.

"Course."

There's something intimate about folding someone's laundry. Touching their clothes, learning what they wear, how they live. Priya had bright-colored socks, sensible underwear, a collection of band t-shirts that told a story.

"You have good taste," I said, holding up a Fleetwood Mac shirt.

"Mum's influence." She took it, folded it neatly. "You're good at this. The folding."

"Mum's influence."

She laughed—a proper laugh that changed her whole face. "We're both products of our mums, then."

"Worse things to be."

We were close now, standing at the same folding table, our baskets of clean laundry between us. The laundrette was still empty, Maria's café dark across the road.

"Can I tell you something weird?" Priya said.

"Go on."

"I come here every Tuesday. Same time. And I always hope someone interesting will be here. Someone to talk to." She met my eyes. "You're the first in six months."

"I'm interesting?"

"You listened. That's interesting enough." She stepped closer. "And you're fit. That helps."

"You're pretty fit yourself."

"Yeah?" She was close enough to touch now. "Prove it."

I kissed her—soft at first, testing. She responded immediately, her hands finding my shirt, pulling me closer. She tasted of chai and possibility.

"Back room," she breathed. "Maria keeps it unlocked for regulars."

"You've done this before?"

"No. But I've thought about it." She grabbed my hand. "Come on."

The back room was a storage space—cleaning supplies, broken machines, a stack of old chairs. Priya pushed me against a washing machine that had seen better days.

"This is mental," I said.

"Best kind of mental." She was already pulling off her shirt. Underneath, a purple bra that barely contained her. "You complaining?"

"Not even slightly."

I helped with the bra, watched her tits spill free—full and heavy with dark nipples that hardened under my gaze.

"Touch them."

I did, filling my hands while she worked at my jeans. Her hands found me hard and ready.

"Fuck. Nice."

She dropped to her knees right there on the laundrette floor and took me in her mouth. Warm, wet, enthusiastic—her eyes looking up at me the whole time.

"Jesus—Priya—"

"Want you," she said, pulling back. "Inside me. Now."

"Condom?"

"My bag. Front pocket. I was hopeful tonight."

I found it, rolled it on while she shimmied out of her joggers. No underwear—she hadn't bothered putting on the ones she'd just washed.

"Against the machine," she said. "I want to feel it vibrate."

I lifted her onto the broken washing machine, positioned myself, pushed in slowly. She gasped, grabbed my shoulders.

"Yes—fuck—"

The machine wasn't running, but we made enough vibrations ourselves. The laundrette echoed with our sounds—her moans, my grunts, the slap of skin on skin.

"Harder—please—"

I gave her harder, bracing against the machine, losing myself in her. She was tight, hot, and making sounds that were going to get us arrested if anyone walked past.

"Close—touch me—please—"

I found her clit, rubbed while I fucked her. She came with a scream that echoed off the tiles, her whole body clenching around me.

"Inside—do it—"

I came hard, buried deep, feeling her pulse around me.

We stayed there for a moment, connected, catching our breath on a broken washing machine in a closed laundrette at midnight.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's one way to make laundry day interesting."

"Best Tuesday in months."

She laughed, kissed me. "Same time next week?"

"Count on it."

I started looking forward to Tuesdays. My washing machine got fixed a month later.

I never told her.