A few months ago, I piled high two baskets of dirty clothes and carefully stepped down the icy back stairs that lead to my building’s laundry room. It’s a thoroughly annoying chore, and in the winter a precarious one due to the occasional ice-slip that leaves your rear end aching for days. I was already having a pretty shitty day after learning that the project I had been working on for weeks was going to be totally scrapped, so when I arrived at the laundry room and saw a girl who was just about to fill up both washers with clothes, I really couldn’t contain my disappointment.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath. But it wasn’t quiet enough. The girl heard me.
“Sorry,” she said. "I’ll take them out as soon as they’re done."
She seemed to be a few years younger than me, in her mid 20s. She had a sweet, round face. I think people call it a "moon face,” which makes sense not just because it’s so round, but because its gravity draws you in. It immediately changed my mood from irritable to calm. She also had blonde hair, very blonde hair. The kind of blonde where it’s so deeply ingrained you swear she must have been badly electrocuted at some point.