Spin Cycle
"She does laundry at the same laundromat every Sunday night—it's quieter than her flat and the machines actually work. He's always there too, same time, same machine. Six months of silence before he finally asks what she's reading."
Sunday nights at the laundromat are mine.
Not officially—anyone can come. But at 9 PM, it's always the same: me, my book, and the hum of ancient machines that somehow work better than anything in my tower block.
And him.
He's been here every Sunday for six months.
Same time. Same machine—the third one from the left, the only one that doesn't vibrate across the floor. We've never spoken.
We've definitely noticed each other.
Tonight, he breaks the pattern.
"What are you reading?"
I look up. He's standing by the dryers, his own book in hand.
"Nuruddin Farah."
"Which one?"
"From a Crooked Rib."
"That's my favorite." He holds up his book. "I'm on Links."
"Also excellent."
We stare at each other. Six months of silence suddenly feeling ridiculous.
"I'm Dalmar," he says.
"Hawa."
"Six months of Sundays, and this is the first time we've talked."
"You could have said something earlier."
"You looked peaceful." He moves closer. "I didn't want to disturb that."
We talk for three cycles.
About books, about East London, about the particular loneliness of Sunday nights when everyone else seems to have somewhere to be.
"Why here?" I ask. "There are laundrettes closer to the estates."
"This one's quiet. No drama." He glances at me. "And you're here."
"I'm a reason to come?"
"You've been a reason for months. I just didn't know how to say it."
The machines finish.
We fold our clothes side by side, hands occasionally brushing, something building between the detergent and the fabric softener.
"Can I walk you home?" he asks.
"That seems old-fashioned."
"I'm old-fashioned about some things."
"Like what?"
"Like making sure someone I care about gets home safe." He meets my eyes. "I know we've only properly talked for two hours. But I've been watching you for six months. Wondering what your voice sounded like. What books you read. What made you smile."
"And now you know?"
"Now I know you have a beautiful voice, excellent taste in books, and a smile that makes me forget my own name." He picks up his laundry basket. "Walk you home?"
He walks me to my tower block.
We stand in the entrance, neither of us wanting this to end.
"Same time next Sunday?" he asks.
"Same time."
"Unless—" He hesitates. "Unless you'd want to get dinner before that. Like, this week."
"That's five days away."
"I know. I'm impatient." He grins. "Six months of patience used up tonight."
We have dinner on Tuesday.
Wednesday becomes coffee. Thursday becomes a walk through Victoria Park. By Friday, I'm at his flat, and we're not reading anymore.
"Dalmar—"
"I've wanted this since the first Sunday."
"You could have said something—"
"I'm saying something now."
He takes me on his bed.
The same sheets he probably folded last Sunday at our laundromat. The same detergent I can smell in his pillows.
"You smell like home—"
"We use the same machines." He kisses down my body. "Same detergent."
"That's oddly romantic."
"Everything about us is odd."
Six months of Sundays become six months of every day.
We still go to the laundromat—together now. Same machines. Same books.
"Marry me," he says one Sunday.
"We're in a laundromat."
"We met in a laundromat." He pulls out a ring. "This is our place."
"You're proposing over dirty laundry."
"I'm proposing over shared Sundays and good books and the woman who made me believe in slow beginnings."
I say yes.
What else do you say to someone who waited six months just to ask what you were reading?
Some love stories start with a bang.
Ours started with a spin cycle.
And kept spinning ever after.