I am with a platinum blonde, bolt straight hair, almost silver in color, cut in a bob. She is thin and tall, has a soft pouty face. We are having a party in my apartment. A good view of the city. I sense she is a little bored; of the party, or of the guests, or perhaps she is not into me as much as I am into her. Siobhan is there, as well as Nena’s friends. The woman is leaning against a doorway, surveying the room and I look up at her.
You. Are. Gorgeous, I tell her. She instantly brightens up, gives me a wide smile.
Let’s have some Pimms and take a bath, she announces.
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OK. I get two crystal tumblers, but they are not matching. Regardless, I pour in the orange brown liquid over ice.
I tell people the party is over. A dark haired boy, early teens, is one of the last to go.
I’m finishing up my laundry, he says. I cannot believe someone brings their laundry to a party.
We’ll cancel the cycle, I tell him. The console of the washing machine looks more like the back panel of a stove, old, black, with mechanical dials for the different cycles. I press various buttons trying to stop it. The console falls forward, is loosely connected to the base of the machine with only a couple of wires to prevent it from being entirely disconnected. I prop the console back up. The boy wants to unload his clothes from the machine.
You can’t go in there, I tell the boy, pointing towards the bathroom. She is waiting for me there.
Through the doorway, I see the woman lying down on what looks like a bed. She is wrapped head to toe in a blue blanket like a shroud. The boy will just have to carry the laundry home wet.
I mean, who brings their laundry to a party?
Image by Ptschinz
