The Only Warm Lit Thing

the laundromat is open all night and nobody told me that until i needed it to be. it's 2am and i'm the only one here, watching the one dryer i'm paying for tumble a single load around and around.

there's a tv bolted up in the corner with no sound. a vending machine that hums. a sign about not leaving clothes unattended, for who, there's no one. i could leave. i'm not leaving. there's something about being the only warm lit thing on a dark street that i don't want to give up yet.

i think about how many people have sat in this exact plastic chair waiting for the exact same forty minutes. the seat's worn smooth. somebody wore it down before me and somebody will after and none of us will ever know each other's names. that should feel lonely. tonight it just feels like company.

the dryer buzzes. i don't get up right away. i let it sit a minute, warm, done, full of clean things, and i think this is probably the most at peace i've been all week and it took quarters and a stranger's worn-out chair to get here.

i fold everything on the counter while the street stays empty. nobody's waiting up for me. for once that doesn't sting. it's just quiet, and the clothes are warm, and that's enough for tonight.