Chapter Text
No Loitering
No Smoking
No Soliciting
No Gambling
No Pets
…said the sign beside the service window. It also said No Service after 8pm, for broken machines leave a message at 555-SPIN
But the Wash & Spin was, to Zach’s relief, cleaner than most 24 hour laundromats he’d been the unfortunate patron of. He had noted, as almost an addendum to a laundromat that was almost too well kept, that the coin machine had an out-of-order sign taped to it. Just to offset the too-good-to-be-true atmosphere, of course. Something around here had to be broken, or he’d have thought he stumbled into some other dimension.
And it was 3am on a Tuesday, so sans one tousled head of hair he could see on the opposite side of the row of triple-load washers cutting the room in half, he had the place to himself. A load of whites in one front loader and darks in the other, he sat at a table nearby with his Kindle and settled in to the quiet amongst the rhythmic thump spin cycles, the scent of bleach and too-bright fluorescents.
Once done, he dumped both loads into a cart and wheeled it around to the bank of dryers, choosing one far enough away from the other guy. Laundromat etiquette wasn’t unlike the subway, or urinal rules, really. Don’t choose the one next to someone else unless you have to, don’t talk, don’t make eye contact, don’t peek.
Well, no, that wasn’t strictly true. Laundromats being what they are, and nevermind the whole cliché boy-meets-whoever over folding unmentionables, but still, 24 hour laundromats had kind of a different set of rules for the sort of people who haunt the nighttime hours. Zach had far too much experience.
As Zach pushed his damp clothes into a dryer, Shaggy six machines down appeared to be doing the “shit I’m completely out of quarters” dance. The guy was searching the pockets of his skinny black jeans, of the jacket and backpack on the table he’d occupied nearby and coming up empty.
Feeding his own machine and hitting the start button, Zach fished a couple more quarters out of his pocket and approached. “Hey.”
Shaggy seemed to freeze, so Zach stepped around him to get a look at his face. Holy shit, hello gorgeous. Underneath that spiky, endearingly unkempt mop were the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, lips too pouty and red to be true, and God, the blush painting itself across his cheekbones over a slightly scruffy yet chiseled jawline, oh no. Zach might be doing a lot of laundry soon.
“I have spares,” Zach offered a friendly smile, holding out the money in his hand. Those crystal blue eyes darted to it and swiftly away without turning his head, shoulders hunched under his hoodie, an indecipherable look on his face.
“Go ahead, man, I have more than enough,” Zach pulled out a couple more coins in case two wasn’t enough and took a step closer. But the guy flinched, and in possibly the weirdest turn of events, skirted around Zach to grab his backpack, and took off for the door into the night, bell ringing wildly in his wake.
“O-kay,” Zach commented to the lone thump-swoosh of his own clothes dryer. He shrugged, pushing the quarters into the machine the guy had abandoned, still full of clothes, and hit the start button. Looking around the now deserted laundromat, he spotted a notebook on the guy’s table.
When Zach’s own load of wash was done, Shaggy still hadn’t returned to retrieve his own clothes or the notebook. He lingered over his folding, and then loitered despite the sign for a good ten minutes, eyeing the notebook. At the end of it, he glanced at the door, then tentatively opened the pages, spotting loopy, unruly felt-tip handwriting. His heart cartwheeled, slamming it shut and setting it down again, mopping a guilty hand over his mouth. Because there are rules: don’t read anything covered and handwritten to which you aren’t explicitly given permission. No matter how strong the temptation.
Shooting one more look at the door, he opened the notebook again, to the back, tugging out one blank, college-ruled page. He pulled out the pen and quickly wrote:
you left this notebook. i didn’t read it. i’m sorry for whatever i did to spook you. i swear I’m not a serial killer or anything, just another bartender who works weird hours. i’m zach. you’re cute. hit me up at the Cave on 8th if you ever want to talk.