Although I have yet to set foot in one, I’ve always imagined Laundromats
To be magical places
The platforms for many a whimsical tale
Perchance a boy meets girl sort of plot
Young, good-looking college freshmen bond over the spinning of socks
The cycling of their clothes the soundtrack to their budding love
The clunking machines mimicking the beating of two eager hearts
Or perhaps a murder mystery
One o’clock am on a Friday night
Beautiful girl, scar faced man, sit alone on opposite ends of the bright room
Fluorescent lights beat down their heads
The neon ink of the windows ominously cheery
The whirring of the machines mimicking the frantic orchestra as the man reveals
A knife within the depths of his dirty coat
And yet when I finally did enter a Laundromat
It was a mere one o’clock in the afternoon
A few kids played in the dusty corner
A middle-aged woman read the paper
Bright sunlight streaked the sterile walls
It seemed the only resemblance between this place and the one shrouded in fantasy
Were the machines,
Whirring and churning
Mimicking nothing but the ever present drone of reality