Tuesdays at the Laundromat

I started going to the laundromat on Tuesdays because my washer broke and I was too broke

to fix it. That's where I met Gerald, this seventy-something guy who folded his

socks with the precision of a surgeon. He'd been coming every Tuesday for six years,

even though he told me his washer worked fine. I thought he was lonely.

Turns out, he just really loved the hum of the dryers. We never planned to become friends.

It just happened between fabric softener debates and waiting for spin cycles. He'd tell me about

his late wife's terrible cooking, and I'd complain about my family asking when I'd

get a real job. My parents wanted a lawyer. I wanted to write stories nobody would