Tuesday, Maybe

In a quiet corner of a city that doesn’t care, two strangers share a laundromat for an hour. One of them is Claire, a graphic designer who just spilled coffee on three days’ worth of clothes.

It was raining in that light, disinterested way cities do�"more suggestion than storm, like the sky couldn’t be bothered to commit.

Claire held a damp bag of clothes and a coffee cup that had betrayed her three blocks back. The lid had come loose on a jolt of sidewalk, and now everything�"jeans, pajamas, the last clean hoodie�"smelled like espresso and oat milk.

She stepped into the laundromat on Maple and 9th, shaking off the rain like a bad joke.

Inside, the hum of machines filled the room like breathing.

---

Dominic was already there, slouched on a molded plastic chair with his feet too far forward and a suitcase half-zipped beside him. He looked like someone who’d arrived early for something he didn’t want to do. His clothes tumbled in dryer number 4, and he was trying�"unsuccessfully�"to get a granola bar from the vending machine.

Claire dropped her bag.

The two nodded.

That was it.

---

At 7:23 p.m., the machine stole her last dollar.

At 7:24, Dominic offered her a quarter.

“It’ll reject it anyway,” he said. “This one’s spiteful.”

“Fitting,” she replied, “so is my day.”

“Tuesday?”

“Maybe.”

That earned a small smile. They didn’t ask for names. Not yet.

---

She chose a dryer near his. Not for any reason. Just because.

The chairs creaked. The air smelled like softener and slow heat.

He asked if pigeons ever get lonely.

She said probably, but less than we do.

He said he wasn’t sure if he was moving in or out of his place. Half his things were in boxes. Half were in storage. None of it felt right either way.

She said she designed album covers, mostly for indie bands that thought Helvetica was edgy.

He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.

---

Someone’s sock flew loose and landed near her foot.

Neither claimed it.

They watched the dryers spin.

At some point, she told him about her worst client�"someone who wanted a logo that “felt like a whisper underwater but also could sell snowboards.”

He told her about the first apartment he ever lived in. The one with the closet that smelled like bread and a landlord who played trumpet at 3 a.m.

They laughed, gently. The kind of laugh that doesn’t echo.

---

At 8:05 p.m., her dryer stopped.

At 8:07, his did too.

She pulled her hoodie out. Still warm. Still faintly coffee-stained.

“Well,” she said, standing.

“Yeah,” he replied.

She held her clothes like a shield. He zipped his suitcase.

“See you around?”

“Maybe.”

They walked out in opposite directions.

The sky had stopped raining.

And just like that, they were strangers again.