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She smiled then, small and sideways. “Good. Because I’m still learning how to let someone walk beside me without thinking it’s a trap.”

“Maya.” She closed the book, thumb holding her place. “And you’re folding a woman’s shirt. Size small. Floral. Whose?” She smiled then, small and sideways

“Always. Three blocks. The crack in the sidewalk by the bodega? I count it as my front step.” “And you’re folding a woman’s shirt

He watched his socks tumble in the dryer—a slow, pointless dance. Then he noticed her. Every few seconds

Under the fluorescent hum of the 24-hour laundromat, Leo was folding his third failed date’s favorite shirt. It was 2:17 AM, the hour when even the city’s neon sighed. He’d met Claire through an app, then another app, then a friend-of-a-friend. Each time, the script was the same: dinner, a walk, a kiss that felt like checking a box. Tonight, she’d left mid-pretzel-bite, citing a “work emergency” that smelled like a different kind of emergency.

“You know,” he gestured to her book, “that’s the one where the dog dies.”

She sat two machines down, barefoot, reading a battered paperback by the light of her phone. Her sneakers were tied together by their laces and slung over the machine’s handle. Every few seconds, she’d look up at her own churning load—a sea of dark denim and one startling red scarf—as if checking that it was still there. As if the machine might run off with it.