Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
(Oliver Q./OC)
"I served three tours in Afghanistan Mr. Queen. You don't even come close to my definition of grief. But I tell you what. You ditch me one more time, no one will have to fire me." John Diggle Arrow, 1.02
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The local Spin N' Save had a riot of blue bubbles hand-painted on the window glass that fronted the Laundromat.
Next door was a liquor store.
Nobody looked at me when I went in; jacketless and a little damp, arms crossed against the biting cold. Because nobody cared. In a neighborhood like this, you minded your own business.
Laundry, but no dry cleaning.
A wall of washers on one side, dryers on the other, and the length of a folding table straight down the middle. A glass-fronted vending machine spit out single-load boxes of detergent; dryer sheets and liquid softener in plastic packets.
People crowded the narrow space. At just past one, it was prime washing hour . . . apparently. But this was good. The more people there were, the less likely anyone was to care that I was there.
I recognized Fyfe only because we'd met before.
He'd changed his identity since then.
From a young, brilliant businessman – very possibly someone's protégé – to a thirty-something Glades lifer who'd come to terms with his lot and wasn't doing too badly.
There was a bag of groceries on the floor by his feet, his body leaning heavily on a rattling washing machine while he thumbed through his phone.
Head bowed, distracted . . . the man saw me the second I came in . . .
Fyfe picked the bag up off the ground, left his washing to spin-cycle without him, and strolled out through the back exit.
He didn't wait for me.
I didn't rush.
From humid heat back out into the cold; steam released in billowing white clouds smelling of dryer sheets and dust, a potholed back alley – and a flight of iron stairs bolted to the rain-wet concrete of the Laundromat wall.
There were two units on the second floor, both with generic white doors. Locks in the doorknobs rather than the sturdier deadbolt that wouldn't have stopped me but . . . I mean, look. Either try or don't bother.
Those could have been bathroom doors for all they kept the neighborhood out.
I started up the stairs. Stepping lightly, but not sneaking. I just didn't like how they rattled.
Unite 102 looked out onto the street. At a glance, it was the better apartment. A lot of natural light with those south-facing windows . . .
