to the girl at the city laundromat
Shyla Jones
I wear my denim with blood on the knees, bruised like a soft-fleshed apple, because I can’t figure out how to pedal backwards on a banana yellow cruiser bike. It’s my first year in the city, I haven’t figured out the way the sidewalks work, and sometimes I like the looks people give me like I’m someone they can’t fuck with. Give me a break.
I notice you wear a lot of hats, and your hair reaches your chin with a crooked cut like you sliced it off with a steak knife. I imagine you have a boyfriend that thinks you love him, and maybe you did once, but maybe it was in high school when everyone had to love someone to survive. When he touches you, his fingertips are cold and clammy against the dip of your clavicles. As I throw in my bright colored load, I mull over what it would be like to run a finger across your cheek, eat frozen pizza in front of television light, and fall asleep with the guts of a lava lamp coloring our skin bubblegum pink.
So, listen. If we were to start a conversation when the old lady’s rinse cycle starts, we’d have twenty minutes before I’d have to throw my delicates in her machine. If I plan it just right, you could see what color my favorite bras are. I want to ask you about the tattoo on your knuckles. Does it say HOMESICK? See, we can bond over that, because some days I find myself missing the smell of my mother’s Chantilly perfume and the way she hates me.
I’ll wear my bloody jeans again next wash week, and I hope you and your syrup eyes look down at them. One time I think you scowled, and I felt like I was twelve again, punching my best friend Gracie, because she was so pretty and I didn’t know why the fuck it mattered so much. I know better now, so if you kissed me, I’d be okay. We can sneak out to the back of the laundromat, where the food truck sells shrimp tacos that smell like soap. Or I’ll throw my laundry bag into the basket of my bike and things won’t be as romantic, but the pegs on the back can hold another person.
When your machine dings, pretend you don’t see me smile like you’re just another city girl I don’t care about. It’s just I have all the right words, I’m still working on everything else.
Shyla Jones is a writer from Boston, MA. She is the EIC of Superfroot Magazine and is currently working on a novel. More of her work can be found at shylajones.com.