He had paid the extra 50p for one of the turquoise industrial machines with the flat glass door and watched attentively as her socks danced around his. He caught a flash of her shirt collar, then a wave from its cuff. It was nice, in the linen warmth of the Princess Laundrette, cushioned from outside’s December day. He sat back into his monobloc chair and moved the unopened book from his lap.
When she got home that evening, her socks were clean and dry and paired in her drawer. His were stuffed firm into the top of his travelling case.
THIS ONE