Story: The Rinse Light

She found the launderette because it was the only room still lit on the street. The sign said twenty-four hours, though nobody inside seemed to believe it. Three washers, two dryers, one vending machine with nothing in it but crisps and a blue packet of powder that cost too much.

Her coat made a wet sound when she pushed it through the washer door. She added powder, then too much powder, then shut the door before she could change her mind. The phone stayed face-down on the orange plastic chair beside her. It had rung twice on the walk over. Both times she had let it become silence.

The machine filled. The glass fogged. The coat lifted and fell as if it was trying to remember a body.

She put four coins on top of the washer and moved them into a line. One for calling. One for not calling. One for a taxi. One for morning. It was a childish system, but it was better than standing in the road with her hands shaking.

When the rinse light came on, the room changed colour by almost nothing. A small amber word in a row of small amber words. The machine kept turning. Nobody asked her to explain the coat, the phone, or the hour.

She waited for the cycle to finish. Then she paid for another rinse.