The Basket That Wasn't Mine
a folded basket of warm towels was already on the table. they matched mine. but mine are all still in my basket.
The dryers run until two. I know because I'm always the last one down here, folding on the table that wobbles.
Tonight there was a basket already on the table. Not mine. Towels, neatly folded, still warm.
Nobody else does laundry this late. I've lived here four years. It's me and the hum and the one flickering light over the far machine.
I waited. Figured someone would come back for them. Folded slow to give them time. Nobody came.
The towels matched mine. Same grey, same little loop of thread coming loose on the corner, the one I keep meaning to cut.
I have eight towels. I counted them this morning. I always count, it's a stupid habit.
I have eight in my basket right now.
So whose are these.
I left them on the table and took the stairs instead of the elevator, and the whole way up I kept thinking about how warm they were. Like someone had just finished.
Did this one stay with you?
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