Rinse Cycle

The laundromat at 2 AM smells like fabric softener and bad decisions. I'm watching my life spin through plate glass, tumbling in soapy circles.

An orange sock—that's what started it. Just one, solitary orange sock in a load of whites. David used to say I was colorblind, that I lived in black and white while he was the one bringing technicolor into our marriage. He brought me orange juice in bed every Sunday morning for three years. Not because I asked, but because he decided that's what happy couples did.

Now the machine's agitating. Water sloshes against the glass, rhythmic and hypnotic. I remember our last fight—not the screaming one, but the quiet one in the bathroom afterward. He was brushing his teeth, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. I was sitting on the edge of the tub, running my fingers through his hair, memorizing the way it curled behind his ears. "We're just different people now," he'd said, toothpaste frothing at the corners of his mouth. "That's all."

That's all.

The rinse cycle begins. Fresh water floods the chamber, diluting everything.

A woman in a trench coat enters with a basket of laundry. She doesn't notice me pressed against the glass, watching my underwear swirl in public. She drops something—impossible to tell what from this distance—and when she bends to retrieve it, her hair falls forward in a dark curtain. Something in my chest twists.

I haven't cut my hair since the divorce. It's past my shoulders now, heavy and unfamiliar. David always loved long hair. He said it made me look like a mermaid. The word mermaid used to make me laugh. Now it just feels like a word for someone who drowns.

The machine stops. Silence rushes in, louder than the noise.

I fold everything in the car, not bothering to sort. The orange sock goes into the basket. Maybe I'll wear mismatched socks tomorrow. Maybe that's what colorblind people do—mix it all together and call it a pattern.

Maybe that's what living looks like.