The Dryer He Always Leaves Open

Same laundromat, same night, going on twelve weeks now. I don't know his name. I know he takes the 11pm slot like I do, that he folds fitted sheets properly, that he always claims the dryer on the end, the one that doesn't squeal, and leaves it open until I get there.

He's never said it's for me. He's never said anything. But it's open every single week, door swung wide, like he timed his load to finish exactly when mine needs one. I've started timing my own arrival around it without admitting that's what I'm doing.

Tonight the laundromat's just us two and the machines. He catches me looking at the open dryer and almost smiles, the closest thing to acknowledgment either of us has ever risked.

I have the whole thing lined up. Something normal. Thanks for always leaving that open for me, I don't even know your name. Six words, maybe seven. I get as far as turning toward him.

Then I think about what happens after he says something back. How this stops being the one good, unclaimed thing in my week and starts being a person who could disappoint me, or worse, a person I could disappoint.

I fold my sheets instead. Leave before his cycle ends. Already rehearsing next Tuesday, the door swung open, exactly like this one was.