There is a specific kind of peace that lives inside a Queens laundromat at 9 pm on a Tuesday. Fluorescent, fabric-softener-scented, slightly spiritual.
The man who owns mine is named Victor. He lets me leave my clothes if I'm running late. He gave my roommate's cat, long story, a can of tuna once. He knows everybody's name on this block and exactly one thing about each of us.
I do my best thinking in front of a dryer. The warm circular blur. The sound of a zipper going around and around. My to-do list quiets down. My body remembers it has a body.
A city this big insists you move fast. The laundromat insists you don't. It says, forty-five minutes, sit down, read the thing, and for the love of god, fold it nicely.
I am learning to listen.
✦
Love,
Pooja