End of Cycle
In the dust and dirt of the old laundrette, a small dog curled into a pile of lint. It watched as folks came and went. They filled the large machines, poured powder and liquid, dropped coins, then left their wash to its own devices. No one noticed the dog, hungry and doe eyed, huddled between a pile of wash baskets and a pile of magazines. The dog was silent, accustomed to seeking refuge where it wasn't wanted, or needed.
As the sun set in an unspectacular fashion, office workers began to file in, cash in hand, ready to collect their service wash. A few arguments broke out about bleached jeans and shrunken jumpers, but it was just the passing of deeper frustrations between strangers. The dog knew the onset of night would bring about a search for new shelter, but right now it was content to just watch these folks going about their routines which kept them sane.
The owner of the laundrette closed the shop and took up his broom. For a place where people come to clean, they sure leave things dirty, thought the old man. He cleaned the large washers and dryers, tossed lonely socks into a basket, collected empty drink cans, re-stacked the magazines and finally, he turned out the lights. He stood in the shop doorway and lit a cigarette, watched the people make their way home, or make their way out, or maybe, he thought, just make their way.
The dog stood up and stretched. It had been a quiet day, but he was glad of that. He trotted up behind the old man before taking a place at his heel. They both watched the last of the sun, knowing it would all start again tomorrow.
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