at the lavandería with the brujo
Thursday 9 August 2007 | I like a cookie
Washers are 39¢ on Tuesdays and Thursdays, dryers are 40¢ every day. The only Anglos in the place, we watched tiny girls and boys scampering around, spinning carts, trying to climb into dryers, while the B. and I did our laundry together for the first time. Silk goes in lingerie bags, is washed in cold water, and never dried, I explained nervously. But we both put detergent in first and let the water run for a while before adding clothes; he adds extra detergent to get rid of cigarette smoke. His beat-up Honda is the only car I’ve seen in the whole city with a NO WAR bumpersticker. We bought Topo Chicos with lime at Food City, looked at each other and grinned foolishly, counted off on our fingers the horrible lists of things we still have to do. He looks for some reason a little like Greg Kinnear tonight, I told him. If, that is, Greg Kinnear were ten years older and a lot craggier and completely bad to the bone. I’m sure he’s the sexiest thing ever to hit the Alternative High School algebra classroom. Back home, Pye drinks CatSip (a present from my mom) contentedly, Fiona sleeps with her paws crumpled up underneath her, I put away the dishes naked (because it’s just too hot for clothes) and the B. works on his syllabus, absentmindedly eating mango slices with a fork. Our argument the other night was a proper corker. But my cheekbones hurt also from laughing and laughing. Is this what they call domesticity.
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