Chapter Text
For the fourth Saturday in a row, David Rose found himself at Elmdale’s only laundromat Get the Funk Out by 9 am, caramel macchiato in hand, and his leatherbound notebook tucked into his Burberry messenger bag.
And for the fourth Saturday in a row, he was greeted with a small smile from a man dressed not unlike a youth pastor - baby blue button up, mid-range denim and a braided belt - who sat near the corner bank of machines, reading a book while his laundry washed and dried. Unlike the first two Saturdays, when David had been loathe to make eye contact so early in the morning, today, he easily returned the smile before staking his claim in the opposite corner bank of machines. Perhaps the change in demeanor was attributed to personal growth, or perhaps it was that in spite of his pedestrian style of dress, the man in blue, now known as ‘Patrick’ was very cute. Likely the latter, as David Rose was not, and would never be, a morning person. And since we are truth-telling, his choice of washing machines was purely a matter of vantage point to sneak glances at the man in blue across from him.
The last two Saturdays, had, at best, witnessed small talk between the two men. David, ever guarded, and Patrick, oscillating between flirtatious and teasing, or overly confident and sure of himself. The latter, having an unexpected effect on David, lingering long after their unmentionables and daily wear were laundered, and they had gone their separate ways when the timers had run out. Each Sunday through Friday was just enough time for David to recover, convince himself that Patrick was likely straight, perhaps married, but in any event, would either be too nice, or never the type, to be interested in someone like himself. Damaged goods , he reminded himself, even as he spent an extra 15 minutes on his hair, and slid his lithe legs in his favourite jeans with the ripped knees. He repeated it to himself as the worst possible mantra, as a way of tamping down the nervous excitement he felt as he opened the door to the laundromat, as though life had taught him that allowing himself to feel any sort of hope was futile. Pleasant small talk whilst doing a routine chore, he chided himself. Nothing more. But week after week, smile after cotton-button-up-clad smile, the strength of the narrative David forced himself to recite weakened, and he looked forward to laundry day more than he thought any reasonable human should.