The building's laundry room is a chapel for the faithless: humming machines, fluorescent lights that make everyone look like a corpse, and the holy reek of cheap detergent choking out mildew. I go there when I'm bored enough to consider self-harm via carpet.
Door's cracked. I slip in. Eight pounds of spite and grace. The hinges creak like a dying choir.
Three humans. Four machines. One folding table with lint confetti.
Closest is Gym Guy — tank top in February, shoulders like bread loaves, cologne so strong it probably votes Republican. He's baptizing his clothes in detergent like he's feeding a god that doesn't listen.
Next is FaceTime Girl. Ponytail. Headphones. Phone held high like a holy relic. She's telling her friend why she's "setting boundaries." Translation: she's lying. Three garments in the washer, blanket big enough to smother a moose.
End of the row: Elderly Man. Paper hands, coins slipping from his fingers, each miss a tragedy in miniature. His socks are sorted by color. His grief is sorted by habit.
I hop on the counter. FaceTime Girl gasps like I'm a celebrity streaking. "Oh my god, a cat!" She tilts her phone at me. "Look, he's chubby."
I stare dead into her camera. Judge, jury, executioner. "I'm not chubby. I'm inevitable."
She hears mrrp and squeals louder. Her friend says, "Bring him closer!" No.
Gym Guy pats his thigh like I'm going to pledge allegiance to his quads. Pathetic. I slow-blink the way gods blink at mortals and turn away. Tail flick: denied.
The machines throb. Their timers lie. I don't watch timers. I watch clocks. The kind no one else can see. And in here, they're busy. Laundry rooms collect endings the way lint collects on black sweaters.
FaceTime Girl scrolls with one hand, digs in a vending machine with the other. "I'm so over him," she says, buying chips. Then she texts him back anyway. Humanity in three steps.
Gym Guy slams his washer door shut like he's sealing a tomb. The machine groans, shudders, starts its slow spin toward failure. He nods like he personally invented rotation.
Elderly Man folds his towel with the reverence of a priest, corners sharp, edges aligned. His hands tremble. He pauses. Breathes. Continues.
I paw a gray sock off the table. Gravity applauds. FaceTime Girl squeals again. "He stole a sock!" she shrieks, as if I cracked a bank vault. Relax. It's cotton, not the Ark of the Covenant.
Elderly Man watches me with a smile that isn't "aww." It's older, quieter. He holds out a hand. I sniff it. Old soap. Weak tea. A winter that won't leave his bones. I nod and allow his existence.
The fluorescent light buzzes. A moth suicides against it. Humans ignore it. I don't. I catalogue everything.
Bruno's bark echoes faintly through the wall — idiot dog soundtrack bleeding into my kingdom. I curl my tail tighter. He'll get his due.
Gym Guy cracks open an energy drink, downs half, burps like a cannon. FaceTime Girl fake-laughs at her screen. Elderly Man folds another towel, slower this time.
I flick my ears. The numbers shift. Quiet. Heavy. Like something moving behind the drywall of the universe.
I jump to the warm dryer, curl into the hum. My eyes half-close, but I keep watching. Always watching.
The sock I stole lies on the floor where it fell. Nobody picks it up.
"Laundry rooms collect endings," I murmur. "And lint isn't the only thing that burns."
None of them hear me. Of course.