I sit on a bench at the back of the launderette and watch my bed sheets go around in the dryer. I only use the launderette to dry my bedding and I only wash my bedding when a girlfriend leaves me.
A mother and her two teenage children are stood at a washing machine in front of me. The boy is overweight and eating a bag of crisps and the girl looks embarrassed to be here. “Mum, when are we gonna get a new machine?” she asks.
As the girl bends down to pick laundry out of a bag on the floor, her underwear is visible above the waistline of her jeans and I turn away because I don’t want her mother to see I have noticed.
Walking home I feel the warmth of the newly dried bed sheets through the bag I hold with my right hand over the same shoulder. A hand-drawn sign in a window makes me laugh and I take my phone out to photograph it for Angie. I scroll upwards, browsing our chat from the night before and decide she probably won’t want to hear from me today. I’ve been thinking about her all morning.
I am suddenly struck by a noxious smell and I stop to look around my feet for a dead mouse or rat but I can’t see either. Returning my phone to my pocket, I take a deep breath inward and put my right foot forward first.
Words by SIMON LININGTON