the art of film

₁₂ another laundry day

   "you didn't come last week," she said, offhandedly. 

   "yeah, one of my friends she uh," i shrug, "something came up last minute i guess?" 

   "i see."

   "no, i'm so sorry-"

   she laughs, "you're acting like you stood me up on a date." 

   i'm on my knees piling white socks into the machine. she's on my left and shoves a black bra into the washer. i fixate my eyes on my dirty white socks. she stands up, rolls her shoulders and shuts the machine door, leaning against it. 

   "i brought you another play, by the way." 

   she holds 'oedipus the king' and i nod. 

   she purses her lips, "i don't even have your number. how're we supposed to discuss the books i've been lending you?"

   i fumble for my phone, "wanna uh, put in your number?" 

   she types away quickly and i bite away a smile, asking her a question i already know the answer to. "where do you go to school?" 

   "manchester, you?" 

   "oh, actually?" i feign a surprised look, "same." 

   "really? i haven't seen you around. i mean, amongst the thousands of students that walk around the campus," she smiles. 

   "je suis un mystère," (i'm a mystery) i say, the french rolling off my tongue, though i haven't spoken it in what seems like forever. 

   "french, huh," she furrows her eyebrows. she closes her eyes, "you speak any other languages?" 

   i close my eyes too, "yeah, actually. italian, my family's italian so you know. you?"

"yep, hindi. i'm fluent," the pride in her voice makes me smile.

   "so you're indian?"

   i open my eyes and hers are open and she's twirling the silver bracelet on her wrist. 

   "yeah, my mum's full english and my dad's indian. so i'm like, half."

   her phone pings and she looks down at it. 

   "i'm the most forgetful person ever," she groans, "do i look okay?" 

   her olive green pants and white cable-knit sweater compliments her light olive skin and makes her dark hair seem darker. i nod