The Laundry, Still the Laundry

The storm came in fast. One moment the city smelled of cut flowers and ice cream, and then the sun was gone and the air had turned that particular unsettling cool that means something serious is about to happen overhead. Sina and I were still a few blocks from her building when the first drop hit my arm. I took her hand and we moved faster.

A group of kids beat us to the nearest awning—a hair salon—and watched us run past with great interest. The linden trees along the pavement were going sideways. Trash was doing its best. We made it to her door just as the sky came open, and she got the key in the lock and we were already laughing, pushing each other up the stairwell. Her upstairs neighbor came hurrying down past us in the other direction, not stopping, calling out about her laundry, the laundry, for god’s sake the laundry. We were still grinning when we fell through Sina’s door.

She was a student, living alone in a large prewar apartment that had probably once been two. Not so long ago her older brother had lived here with her. He’d died of an overdose the year before—she didn’t talk about him, not really. A small photo on a metal shelf in the living room was all the space he got. I pulled off my soaked Chucks and went out to the balcony. The neighborhood had gone dark and illegible, all those back facades pressing in, lit occasionally by lightning. Wet air hit my face. It hadn’t rained in two weeks. This was the first storm of the new summer, and the new summer had been waiting for it.

Sina was on her bed when I came back in—that enormous designer bed her parents had given her for finishing school, when she’d wanted a car. Her wet clothes were on the floor beside her. I lay down behind her and pulled her close and closed my eyes. She smelled like something good I couldn’t name. Will you forget me? she said, quiet and clear. Don’t be stupid was all I managed, and I pushed my face into the back of her neck. When’s your flight? Tomorrow. Just after six. Can I come? I’d like that.

I hadn’t known her long. She was sweet and blonde and had the kind of legs that disrupted my train of thought. But I was leaving and she knew it. A few weeks earlier the apartment had been full of people—the best party I could remember. Now it was just the two of us and the furniture. Sina lay naked beside me and the last sex hadn’t been good; I was too far inside my own head to be really present. The fridge had nothing useful. I found a carton of orange juice and took it to the couch. Euronews ran the world weather. Berlin: 28°C. I switched to the sports channel.

The alarm went off and I looked at it. Hadn’t needed it—I’d been awake the whole night watching the ceiling. Sina appeared in the doorway, half-asleep, leaning against the frame. Aren’t you going to get dressed? She looked at me without understanding and went to the bathroom. I got up and opened the balcony door. It was already light and the air smelled irresistibly of fresh bread from the Turkish supermarket below. Somewhere upstairs, her neighbor’s voice floated down—the laundry, still the laundry.

Our first date, she’d asked me over a hamburger if I wanted kids. I took my time. Two. Same, she said, and looked back down at her salad. I’d fallen for her a little right then—something about her face, narrow and bright, the blonde streaks catching light in every color at once. She smiled a lot and meant it. We ended up in bed that first night, which maybe told us everything we chose not to hear. When she drove me to the airport that last morning she didn’t smile once. I kept quiet. At the doors I said, Mach’s gut. That was all I had. I turned around and walked in.