The laundry room doesn't stay quiet long. It never does.
The door slams open and Neighbor Lady storms in like she's late to her own funeral. Two laundry bags dragging behind her, toddler on her hip. Perfume choking the air, lipstick half on, half traveling down her teeth. She's chaos in leggings.
The toddler sees me. His face lights up like a faulty bulb. Hands out. Sticky, wet, unstoppable. He lurches toward me, squealing.
I raise one paw, show him the knives. Polite warning. He giggles. The suicidal always do.
"Don't touch, babe," Neighbor Lady says, not looking, shoving quarters into a machine already whirling. The machine says no. She doesn't listen.
Toddler lunges again. I slip off the dryer, clean and silent, tail brushing his cheek just enough to remind him I exist. He wipes his nose across the metal door instead. A Picasso in mucus.
Gym Guy's machine thuds like it swallowed a brick. He crouches, peers through the glass. "Babe," he mutters to nobody, "I think I overloaded it." Incredible diagnosis. His solution? Do push-ups on the sticky tile. He grunts loud enough to alert the fire department. Calls it twenty when it's barely ten.
FaceTime Girl ends her call, sighs dramatically, then immediately starts texting three guys at once. "I'm staying single for my peace," she whispers. Peace apparently involves dick appointments.
The fluorescent light buzzes. Toddler discovers the rolling cart, climbs in, and demands a parade. Neighbor Lady pushes him around in circles. He laughs. Coins rattle. He shoves one in his mouth. She screams. He burps it back up. Circle of life.
Elderly Man doesn't flinch. He keeps folding. Towels, shirts, socks. Each crease sharp as prayer. His hands tremble more now, though. Slower. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the act for when he won't get another chance.
I hop onto the table. His stack leans. He steadies it. Smiles at me again. Not the "kitty!" smile. Something older. Like we share a joke about how this all ends.
I steal another sock. He chuckles. "You can have it," he murmurs. He pats his chest, just once. A private check. His numbers stutter, then keep going. Not today. Soon.
No one else notices. Of course they don't. They're too busy drowning in detergent and denial.
The vending machine coughs. FaceTime Girl tears open chips and complains about rent. Gym Guy finishes his push-ups and flexes at the dryer door. Neighbor Lady argues with her toddler about coins like debate's an option. Humans, humans, humans. A circus that doesn't know the tent is on fire.
I stretch across the warm dryer, curl in the hum. My eyes slit, tail flicking. The sock I stole dangles from my claw. Gray, ordinary, disposable. Like most of them.
On the mounted TV, a newscaster mouths words behind silent captions. The crawl drags across the screen: bus accident… delays… investigation ongoing.
The room ignores it.
I don't.
I close my eyes. Purr low.
The laundry room hums. The world spins. Numbers tick.
The bus never arrived.