Short Stories

The Laundromat

I’ll be a horny toad if I let that man control how I feel. I’ll show Hairy Henry the Horrible just how much he mattered to me. I’ll wash all my memories of him down the drain. Smart of me to remember the all night Laundromat. I can do it all at one time. Now if I can just get this heavy door open without dropping my dirty laundry in the parking lot. Whew! What a load. If I had any more stuff, my little VW bug would squat on its wheels and refuse to go.

Now, how much money am I going to need? I hope twenty dollars in quarters will be enough. I don’t want to leave my clothes there in the middle of the night while I go to the bar next door to get change. Oh good, no one else here. I can use as many washers as I want. Coming here in the middle of the night was a smart move. Course I couldn’t sleep anyway, but I’d never tell Hairy Hen that.

Just think how good I’m going to feel when I wash everything in the apartment that he could have touched. I’ll just get the worst started first. These queen sheets should fit in one washer, if I push them down. The sheets they’d made love on last night – before he told her he had rented an apartment for his secretary, Melissa, and was moving in with her.

I knew something was wrong. He was acting so sneaky the last two months. He used to expect me to pick up after him all the time. Then he started picking up after himself. That is until last night when he left these sopping wet towels on the bathroom floor. I’ll stuff them in here with the sheets. I don’t want to contaminate my clothes with his smell; that’d just make it harder. How did he call her when he wasn’t in the office? I checked the phone bills the last two months. I didn’t see any strange numbers.

Oh look, here’s some of those expensive socks he bought. They’re hairy and wild colors. What should I do with them? I could use them for dust rags; they fit on my hands. But then, I’d think about him every time I dusted. Well, that wouldn’t be too often: I’m not the best of housekeepers. I only clean when Grammy is coming over. That’s what I’ll do! I’ll give her the socks to make the monkey dolls she sews for Children’s Hospital. Grammy never liked Henry; guess she was right. I’ll call and tell her so – when I can say his name without crying.

Drat! Here comes someone in with a bunch of dirty clothes. “Hey. That washer has my clothes in it. There’s some empties in the back.” He’s kinda cute. No, Liz, you’re off men for at least as long as you dated Henry. Remember your insight at the therapy sessions after you broke up your relationship with George: it takes as long as the length of the relationship to get over it. That means no new men in your life until next November. Drat! There goes my summer.

“Okay. Okay. Don’t get your drawers twisted, lady. I wouldn’t want to put my clothes in there anyway; the water is all red.”

“Red? Oh my gosh! He would look in that one. And I thought I was doing so well, getting rid of everything. What must he think? I have to say something. What should it be? Oh, I know: “Oh, dear; I must have dropped my red sweats in with the sheets.”

“Hey, I did that with my good white shirts. Had to take them to a commercial laundry to get the pink out.” Whew. That was close. Just what I need! I’ll pour in more bleach. So what if I wash the flowers off the sheets? I couldn’t sleep on them anyway. They’re full of bad memories. Just think, I bought them to celebrate our seven month anniversary on. What a dunce I am! Blind, too. Most men get a seven year itch; Hairy Henry got it in seven months.

I’ll put this machine on delicate and wash my lingerie. Should I keep these “weekies”? What fun we had had, joking about pulling off the panties, before bed each night. I made sure I wore the right one for each day. We had the most fun with the Sunday ones, feeling sinful making love instead of going to church. The first week was a fun seven days. He’d bought them for Valentine’s day; said he maybe should have bought two sets they were so much fun. Hey, I bet that’s what he did do. Bought one set for me and one for Melissa. I decided to wash them and then put them in the Goodwill barrel.

Oooh, another reminder! I just can’t throw this black lace nightgown away. I felt so sexy in it. Another futile celebration purchase. I was sure it would turn Henry on and he’d pull it off me and throw me on the bed. Of all things, I had to gyrate in a strip tease to arouse him. And that didn’t last. I thought he’d just had a little too much to drink or something. Never dreamed he couldn’t perform ‘cause Ms. Melissa had drained him dry.

What’s this? Ha! His Ralph Lauren jeans. Am I ever going to have a ton of fun with them. I’ll wash them in the hottest water to shrink them so much he can’t get his big toe in them. Not that he’d dare come back for them. Oh, good, there’s still a half bottle of bleach. That should make them look like they belong to a hippie. I’d better go through the pockets. He often stuffed his money in them. Said a billfold ruined the line of his backside. What’s this? It’s a cell phone. It isn’t his; his was black. This one is lavender. Hmmm. It’s one of those programmed with a certain number of minutes. Perfect for making calls that can’t be traced. Bet that’s how he talked with Melissa. I’ll just redial the last number he called.

“Hello, Hunk,” a dripping sugar voice answered after the first ring. “Did you tell Liz about us?” I was right; he’d used the lavender phone to call her so it wouldn’t show on our phone bill. I’d heard Melissa’s dramatic nasal tones enough to recognize her. Hope she heard the water gushing as I threw the lavender love phone into the washer. I hate her! Wish I could drown her as easily as that phone.

How can it be Monday already? Washing all traces of Henry the Horrible out of my life and our apartment took all of Saturday night and yesterday. Boy am I tired this morning. I’m glad I called in sick. I couldn’t have faced the questions about my weekend without crying. Crying in the office is a no-no. Stupid me had to go and brag about my plans for the anniversary weekend. Show off the black nightgown. I hope I’ll feel better tomorrow. Now who’s calling?

“Is this Liz?” I know that voice. Been expecting Messy Melissa to call.

“Yes?”

“This is Melissa Adams, Henry’s personal assistant at work?” And a lot of other things outside work. If you think I didn’t know about you, you’d be absolutely right – until Saturday night.

“So?”

“Our general manager asked me to call. I, I … we’re worried about Henry. He’s not answering his cell phone and no one’s seen him since he left the office on Friday.”

“Is that right?”