left work early to pick up the two pairs of chinos i’ve left three weeks ago with my laundromat. “ella se fue,” the cashier told me. she, being the crone of a seamstress who does hemming and sundry minor alterations.
across the counter, a machine was being ornery. by the front-loaded spinner, a giggly teen couple was oblivious to its racket. every time her young romeo gazed at her, the portly girl would lean hard against the machine to stop herself from levitating.
through the porthole, brightly colored shirts would flash then dirty suds fogged it over, my active seeing yielding to dull remembering.