They kissed. I folded. We all had a moment.
Several weeks ago, I vowed never again to do laundry on a weekend. This epiphany arrived during a particularly bleak Sunday evening in an overcrowded laundromat where I found myself in a passive-aggressive, high-stakes showdown with a scowling Russian grandmother and a sweaty dude in cargo shorts who reeked of Axe and despair. Is this my life now? Furiously yanking wet underwear from the washer so I can beat Team Sad Beige to the last available dryer?
Tuesday night seemed like a smarter play. No yoga, no French class, no happy hour, just me and my dirty socks, living the dream. I left work at five sharp, broke two lesser traffic laws on the way home, grabbed our hampers, and beelined to the shiny, over-air-conditioned laundromat. Parked right out front like a laundry boss. This is how laundry should be.
I hauled in Hamper One. The door was propped open (October heatwave, naturally), and the place was empty,except for two girls perched on the folding table behind the front-loaders. Cute. Quiet. Unbothered. That changed quickly.
As I bent to unload my shame pile of stretched-out sports bras and off-white socks, the girls leaned in and started making out. Full tongue. No warm-up. Just, boom—lesbian softcore.
I turned around and went back out to get Hamper Two, blinking. Not because I was scandalized. Please. I was just recalibrating… because for a split second, I thought they were sisters. They looked that alike: short, tan, bespectacled, and straight-up adorable. Mexican? Filipina? Cuban? Algerian?
When I came back in, things had escalated. Bodies pressed, hands groping, tongues… visible. I focused all my mental energy on loading the washers. Detergent. Quarters. More detergent. Pretend the lesbians aren’t dry-humping three feet away.
From outside came a high-pitched shriek that was startling, but obviously in passing. The girls paused, glanced toward the door, and the taller one muttered, “How annoying.” But she was looking at me. I could feel it.
And that’s when it hit me: they wanted me to be shocked. Like I was supposed to clutch my pearls and scurry off with my sensible sport panties, shaken and stirred.
As if demonstrative queer affection would leave me flustered. Bitch, please. I’ve done worse things than make out on a folding table, and I’ve done them on camera.
