(no subject)
The songs were seamless; they flowed into each other, and you could barely tell them apart. Sure, a tempo change here, a sax featured there, or maybe vibes, but it was the same basic Marx-brothers-esque, hot twenties instrumental leaking from that black box, the one that was perpetually on. As a strict rule it was to be eternally tuned to the CBC, however, occasionally late at night he’d put on the jazz station, or classical. It was always jazz when she was over, he knew it made her simultaneously peaceful and giddy, brought out in her the things he’d first been attracted to, the things he loved most.
He looked over at her from where he sat at the kitchen table, laptop positioned amongst the myriad of neatly arranged papers, folders and whathaveyou on the freshly laundered tablecloth. The table cloth, he thought to himself, which is avocado green. A color which gained popularity in fifties, along with flamingo pink, canary yellow and robin’s egg blue, prevalent in cars and in particular kitchen appliances, he repeated to himself. She was always going on about colors, chiding him gently when he mistook grey for green, violet for brown, and on one occasion yellow for pink! That had made her gape at him in mock (?) horror; what was he thinking?!
In any case, the (avocado green) table cloth had been along with them this evening for one of their Monday night trips to the Laundromat. She had a machine at her place, yet she was always begging him to be allowed to come with while he did his laundry, it was her favorite thing. She loved everything about the Laundromat, the sounds of the machine humming and the clothing steadily, rhythmically rotating, the smells, warm and soapy, the colors of the Laundromat (there was that robin’s egg blue again), the domesticity of it all, the independence, the vibrations, the heat, the vacancy. She’d always found the Laundromat terribly romantic, she’s sigh, and terribly sexy. Whenever he’d allowed her to come along, it would routinely end in nights of soaking the very sheets he’d just washed. Needless to say, it was quickly becoming a weekly outing.
He looked away from the glowing screen at the girl in next “room”, which was actually about two feet away in his tiny basement apartment. The home had been subdivided into several four foot quadrants so as to give the appearance of space, and provide both a functional and cozy abode. “hallway”, “kitchen”, “dining room”, “den”, “music room”; you could walk the whole thing in ten steps. She’d curled up in the living room on his couch and was reading the book he’d picked up for last week at the library when she’d been bored and irritable. She’d swooned at his idea to take her out in the rain to the library; he’d hit a nerve; this was even more romantic than the Laundromat! Since then she’d been around constantly, curled up on his bed as he worked, reading the book he’d checked out for her and purring like a kitten. She’d come over this evening for another laundry date and had stayed, ostensibly to keep him company and watch to make sure he’d stay on track and finish his homework instead of becoming distracted again and baking yet another pie, though he figured it had more to do with his freshly laundered sheets and their imminent sullying.
He looked over at her from where he sat at the kitchen table, laptop positioned amongst the myriad of neatly arranged papers, folders and whathaveyou on the freshly laundered tablecloth. The table cloth, he thought to himself, which is avocado green. A color which gained popularity in fifties, along with flamingo pink, canary yellow and robin’s egg blue, prevalent in cars and in particular kitchen appliances, he repeated to himself. She was always going on about colors, chiding him gently when he mistook grey for green, violet for brown, and on one occasion yellow for pink! That had made her gape at him in mock (?) horror; what was he thinking?!
In any case, the (avocado green) table cloth had been along with them this evening for one of their Monday night trips to the Laundromat. She had a machine at her place, yet she was always begging him to be allowed to come with while he did his laundry, it was her favorite thing. She loved everything about the Laundromat, the sounds of the machine humming and the clothing steadily, rhythmically rotating, the smells, warm and soapy, the colors of the Laundromat (there was that robin’s egg blue again), the domesticity of it all, the independence, the vibrations, the heat, the vacancy. She’d always found the Laundromat terribly romantic, she’s sigh, and terribly sexy. Whenever he’d allowed her to come along, it would routinely end in nights of soaking the very sheets he’d just washed. Needless to say, it was quickly becoming a weekly outing.
He looked away from the glowing screen at the girl in next “room”, which was actually about two feet away in his tiny basement apartment. The home had been subdivided into several four foot quadrants so as to give the appearance of space, and provide both a functional and cozy abode. “hallway”, “kitchen”, “dining room”, “den”, “music room”; you could walk the whole thing in ten steps. She’d curled up in the living room on his couch and was reading the book he’d picked up for last week at the library when she’d been bored and irritable. She’d swooned at his idea to take her out in the rain to the library; he’d hit a nerve; this was even more romantic than the Laundromat! Since then she’d been around constantly, curled up on his bed as he worked, reading the book he’d checked out for her and purring like a kitten. She’d come over this evening for another laundry date and had stayed, ostensibly to keep him company and watch to make sure he’d stay on track and finish his homework instead of becoming distracted again and baking yet another pie, though he figured it had more to do with his freshly laundered sheets and their imminent sullying.