We All Fall Down

Part 1 : A Love Story

Rick

The first time I saw her, she was hunched over the counter. A strand of blonde hair hung loose from her ponytail and was caught in her eyelashes. She didn't notice me walk in, didn't look up from her book when the bell chimed, notifying a customer had entered. Not being much of a reader myself, I was curious to know what book would cause someone to be so rapt. So enthralled that they couldn't pull their eyes away, even at something meant to alert you.

I don't know how long I stood there with my family's basket of dirty clothes, but when I did finally decide to move, it was because my arm was becoming sore from the weeks' worth of laundry that we'd accumulated. Usually, my mother did this sort of thing—groceries, laundromat, but last week I'd torn my meniscus at a basketball game and ended my season.

If you're not going to play, you're going to help your mother out around here. My father had said.

So, there I was, hobbling on my throbbing knee with a crutch under my right arm, and the basket wedged against my hip in the other. The sound of dryers humming and washing machines swishing kept a strange barrier between me and the girl at the counter. There was only one other customer, but he was so deeply asleep that his mouth hung open, and an embarrassing trickle of drool slid down his slack jaw and made a stain on the collar of his shirt.

I tried to keep my back to her, to not stare at this girl with sun-bleached hair who loves to read. But having never seen her before, something in me needed to know who she was. I was drawn to her in a way I'd never experienced with any girl before, and being 17, that's saying something. But, my mother was a feminist before feminism was a thing and taught me that not all women wanted to be approached. That most just wanted to be left the hell alone. That, coupled with my introverted nature, I resigned myself to sorting darks from lights and spending my Saturday afternoon at the laundromat instead of hanging out at my best bud, Todd's house. My mother, the feminist, did not like Todd as she claimed his father had a wandering eye and Todd would learn that same poor behavior. Behavior that served no man (or woman) any good.

There were several places to sit and wait, but I choose the one that offered me a visual of the girl. She never looked up. Her delicate finger just turned page after page, as she shifted her weight and rested her chin on her fist, sighing occasionally. The man in the back snored loudly and slumped sideways. My machine buzzed, pulling my attention back to my task. I stood and cleared my throat. The girl didn't look up. I reached into my pocket for more change, whistling as I opened the washing machine and emptied the contents into the dryer on the opposite side. I was facing her now, and from this angle I noticed just how beautiful she was, and that realization made my mother's voice even louder.

Leave her alone. She just wants to read her book without being harassed.

So, I placed my coins in the slots and turned the dials. I was not going to approach her, I truly wasn't. But the machine wouldn't turn on. I tried shimmying it, checked that the coins had dropped in properly. No luck.

Now, I must talk to the girl.

I cleared my throat again and rubbed my sweaty palms on my shorts before adjusting my crutch to avoid tripping and ruining the serendipitous moment before it began. Because that's what I'd convinced myself was happening. I was not merely a hormone-driven Neanderthal. The universe had placed me there to meet her. If I am perfectly honest, my want to speak to her that day had nothing to do with sex. Nothing to do with, what I would soon hear, the intoxicating sound of her laugh or the heavenly shape of her body. She was meant to be mine.

Taking one timid step at a time, attempting to look as cool and casual as a guy with a crutch can, I approached her. She still wouldn't look up and by this point, it felt like a game. Like she knew I was there and was purposely not going to look up. I reached out and placed my free hand on the counter and cleared my throat again, noticing that her book was well worn and dog-eared like it meant more to her than any old story.

"What are you reading?" I asked. My heart shot up into my throat, beads of sweat dotted my hairline despite the fan she had blowing directly at where we stood.

Her eyes slowly crept from the curled pages, up to my face. Green. Her eyes were green, but one had a small black dot on the side. As I stared at her, I realized she'd finally spoken, and I heard my mother's voice once more chastising me for gawking.

"I'm sorry. W-would you please repeat that?" I asked, my insides shriveling at the sight of her face that was twisted in either repulsion or pity. Maybe that was why I hadn't had a girlfriend yet.

"The Catcher in the Rye," she said in a southern twang with a finality that told me she wasn't really interested in talking anymore to the creep that approached her in the laundromat.

But I couldn't walk away. I couldn't let this be the end of our story.

"What's it about?" I said to the top of her head, as she had already brought her attention back to her book. My face burned as she let out a heavy sigh.

"Do you need somethin'?" She sat up straighter, placing a hand on one page of the book while the other half flopped closed.

"Your name, maybe?"

"Somethin' wrong with your machine?" She tilted her head and blinked.

"Well, yes ma'am. The machine doesn't seem to be working. But I would also love to know your name."

"That one's been broken for ages. They'll never fix it," she nodded to a jar two-feet away from us. "Grab some change from there." She offered, then turned back to her book.

I thanked her and shuffled over, grabbing the appropriate amount to cover my load and moved back to my machine. The sleeping man was now on his back, his left arm hung at an awkward angle off the bench. His knuckles were touching the grimy tiles below.

I didn't look at her again, too embarrassed by the failed attempt at flirting. But just as I folded and stacked our clothes back into the basket and was going to make my shameful walk back toward the door, I heard her southern drawl so close that it startled me. I jumped, knocking her to the ground. Forgetting I still had a bum knee, I attempted to reach and help her up, apologizing profusely, only to collapse on top of her in the most humiliating display I'd ever been part of.

"I'm so sorry! SO, SO sorry! Are you hurt?" I asked, attempting to roll off of her, my knee screaming, my stomach churning.

"No. I'm not hurt. I'm Patrice." Her voice was strained as she tried to sit up. We both inspected our tangle of limbs, then the sleeping man grunted, pulling our attention to him just as he let out a righteous fart.

We were inseparable ever since.