laundry room

i stand in the laundry room of my apartment complex. the lights have been broken for weeks now but no one cares to report it to the super. i clink my ice around in my glass and then realize the ice-clinking sound, indicative of a cocktail that’s been consumed already, may sound weird emanating from a darkened laundry room at 8:45 on a Monday night. and i don’t give a damn.

i’m in my laundry clothes – what you wear when you’re washing your real clothes. i have a painting to complete, waiting upstairs. and the dryer will not finish. i’m alone and i’m waiting and the dryer hums. da dum, da dum, da dum, du du du du dum – i hear a different beat and hope it means the cycle’s complete. it’s not. and it occurs to me as i’m longing to know what the sounds of the dryer mean, that i have the strong urge to be passionate about someone. not with someone. i know that feeling, and i know that feeling, and that’s not what i’m talking about. i want to want to be somewhere else, with someone. but i don’t want that enough to not be where i am. it’s a strange duality that i don’t let myself sit in for long. instead i refocus on my contentment. in the laundry room, barefoot with pretty toenails, with the remains of john jameson in my hand, wet with the condensation of what my evening was.