Laundry

At a break in traffic, I dash across the street to the wash and fold laundry to pick up my shirts. The interior of the establishment is well lit against the gloomy night, like an Edward Hooper painting, and much like his most famous painting, a few figures stand in tableau at the counter, waiting to retrieve their clothes.

A couple stands outside, as well, chatting together in front of the window, and because the interior is full, I wonder at their relation to things - are they waiting outside for things to clear out inside, so that they, too, can go in for their laundry?

I hesitate for a moment, then pull open the door and go inside, checking from the corner of my eye for any indication that they believe they should go first, but they ignore me and continue to chat as I lay my claim ticket on the counter and greet the owner, who smiles.