No Drying Only. In any other business more machines would be installed to coin in the jangle. She had large eyes and lashes like a rabbit. Her auburn hair was tied back and decorated with a ribbon. Chipped Formica to fold your clothes and the smell of boredom that rises in a mist. Crusty plastic cups for detergent in stasis from the sixties. Notices stuck with yellowing tape remind me of final wash, and the price of a cup of powder. She watched her bed-spread turn in the drier. Time is measured out by clockwork controllers. I must have looked like a fresher who’d never seen a launderette before. Her help was warm to the touch. Gentle with the intricacies of powder, Straight-Six and, and safety locks on doors. The wallpaper was embossed with shells, nicotine and the fug of soap. She smiled as I stuffed my clothes into a dustbin bag.
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