I sit down on an orange cracked chair, the padding showing and the edges of the vinyl covering feebly taped together. The masking tape does no good, the chair still scratches my bare skin and though there is obvious evidence of cushioning, it offers no comfort. I stare blankly, as if in a trance, at clothes visible through a round window spinning crazily in the washer. The action is hypnotizing, and slowly my lids grow heavy and begin to close. Then, as if from a great distance, faintly comes the sounds of people quietly chatting and one lady manuevering around three men pityfully trying to fold dry clothes.

"Beep, beep, beep," she says, pretending, or probably believing, she is a dump truck backing up. She retrieves her clothing from a dryer, placing them in the basket on wheels she had been pushing.

My gaze, now shifted, watches the dryers lazily tumbling a minute amount of clothes in their large frames. My laundry is finished and now I rest, waiting for my ride. I glance up at the clock, a film of grime announcing its old age. I have been in this laundromat for three hours now and the sweat on my skin is thick, the fans overhead rotate slowly, stirring still, damp air, doing nothing. The air is heavy with smoke from an unseen cigaratte, burning my lungs. I cough.

I need to step outside and get a fresh breath.

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