I could cycle through the laundromat puns, maybe even spin them out, but it’s probably better to get on with the story and see what comes out in the wash…
March’s Furious Fiction challenge from the AWC was <500 words, with a setting inspired by the above image and a theme of curiosity. You can read the winner and shortlisted stories here.
I didn’t really hit the theme, but I was happy with my story: Walk In, Walk Out.
“Check it out!”
He stops in the middle of the footpath, wrenching my arm. It hurts, but it’s a fleeting pain. Not like the tightness which presses on the top of my chest as I recognise his gleeful tone.
He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his chin as he reads the sign taped to the shopfront.
“For sale. Walk in, walk out. Going concern. Imagine it, Jules.”
It’s an effort to keep my voice neutral. My blood pressure kicks up and anxiety presses down like a weight around my neck.
“It’s a laundromat,” I say, because I have to say something or be accused of not wanting to talk about what he wants to talk about, or having no curiosity, or being negative.
“Always demand for a laundromat in a tourist town.” He presses his nose to the window, cupping his hands at the side of his face to cut out the glare. His breath fogs the glass as he adds, “Neat little place. Kind of retro.”
That means dated. I don’t bother peering in. I can see enough through the wire-meshed security glass. Old and tired, half the machines probably broken, a–
“Great little fixer-upper,” he says, beating me to the not-funny punchline. “Imagine it. We could live here, cheap as chips. Run this place. Grow our own veg, keep a few chooks. The good life, hey?”
“Yeah. The good life.”
I drag in a breath, struggling to get enough air into my lungs. It tastes of grease from the fish and chip shop next door and exhaust fumes from the snaking queue of traffic heading for the beach.
“No big overheads. Set our own hours. It’s perfect, love.”
He rubs his hands together as if it’s all sorted, so I catch hold of his elbow and nudge his arm. He starts walking again and I breathe a little easier.
“Regular servicing, of course,” he says. “No money in machines that don’t run.”
A giant fist crushes my lungs.
I gasp out, “How do they work?”
It’s exactly the right thing to ask. He talks about electric motors the whole way home and I don’t have to say anything until we reach the front desk.
“Here we are,” the nurse says, taking his other arm. She raises her eyebrows at me and mock whispers, “How was he?”
“Fine. He was fine.” My breath catches as I press my lips to his bristled cheek. “We’ll go for another walk tomorrow. Alright, Dad?”