the art of film

₅ gatsby

   im crouching as i  shove my dirty white socks into the washing machine. i do my laundry in different loads. white socks, dark socks, dark clothes, light clothes, and underwear are all done separate washes. 

   i'm thankful that the laundromat is a ten-minute walk away from the flat. i pour some detergent into the machine and press some buttons. it makes a rumbling sound and it starts.

   i stumble to the chairs which are situated by the windows and look outside. it's dark and the streetlights are on. rain softly hits the window and i sigh. i'm still wearing my white button up that i hastily put on in a rush for my interview. 

   i hope i get the job. i kind of need it. i definitely need it. 

   i hear the sound of a page turning and i look to my right. i try and (somewhat discreetly trying not to look creepy) look at the cover, trying to make out the title.

   "it's 'the great gatsby'."

   the voice holds amusement and i meet her eyes. 

   the great gatsby. the book looks years old as if it's been read hundreds of time. 

   her brown eyes are warm; her beige cable knit sweater which she wears with maroon pants (which would seem odd but she pulls off) compliments her light caramel-olive skin. she's looking at me with a dark eyebrow raised, spinning the thick silver bracelet that fits loosely around her wrist. she puts her book down on the hard empty chair beside her.  

   "f. scott fitzgerald?" 

   i stare at her and then blink, "gatsby's an asshole." 

   i except a laugh, but don't get one, "mm, i think he's just flawed. but everyone is." 

   i turn slightly to face her, "he's a creep."

   "he's a romantic hero?" 

   "kind of obsessive too-"

   "well i mean-"

   "nah, c'mon, he's just an asshole," i say.

   this earns a laugh. she picks up her book and holds it close to her face. 

   "that's not good for your eyes," i blurt out. "to keep the book to close to your eyes. it should be at a good distance away."

   she smirk-smiles slightly, "says the one with glasses." 

   i pretend to look offended and goes back to reading the page that she had dogeared. the buzzer goes off a few minutes later and she gets up. the laundromat's next-to-empty; it's just me, her and an elderly woman sleeping in a chair a few down from where she was sitting. i unlock my phone as she puts her freshly laundered t-shirts into a bag. 

   "thursday's laundry night." 

   i tell her that thursday is coincidentally my laundry day as well, on impulse.

   she pushes the door open and walks out, quickly walking into the rain and i think about how i don't even have a 'laundry day' and that she smells like a mix of oranges and jasmine.

-authors note-

eleanor and park low-key made me cry and i'm trying to study for  tests [and exam week is next week] :c 

also fun fact: its actually starting to feel like a true canadian winter; i almost slipped on ice today and snowsnowsnow