Un Jour

Steve Anwyll

Over the tumbling dryers I hear The Employee’s accent. A collection of Ethiopian, TV English and Parisian French. We’re nice here... if you can’t be nice, get out... t’es fou she says flicking her wrist and rolling her eyes. I laugh as a man cowers in front of her.

I... I... I’m sorry, The Client stammers shrinking into himself. He takes the change The Employee drops on the counter. He scurries to the back of the laundromat. I step toward the washing machines. The Employee sees me and smiles. I wink.

The Client takes off his pants. His legs are skinny and his underwear show a dark stain where his asshole must be. I look at The Employee and raise my eyebrows. She shrugs and says he’s a drunk. I see myself in his stumble. The way I used to be.

I drop my bag on the ground. It’s heavy. A week of clothing for two. My Love won’t come here. We grew up small town middle class, everyone had machines in the basement. No need to rub elbows with the great unwashed. She stuck to her ways. I was happy to leave mine behind.

You’re missing out... it’s never boring...always a little excitement to help the minutes pass, I say to coax her along. Though she doesn’t believe. She scoffs. So I don’t push. It’s time to myself. It’s time to herself.

We used to be inseparable.

The Employee puts on a winter coat. She holds her cigarette like royalty. I ask her to change dimes into quarters before her break. She huffs. Her head shakes as she counts. She mutters insults in French and Amharic before striding out the back door.

The coins tinkle as they fall inside the slots of three machines. I close the lids and let the water run before adding soap. I keep one eye on The Client. He doesn’t stop moving. Erratically darting back and forth he reminds me of a squirrel in the park. He’s fucking nuts.

I separate whites from darks. Untangling the sheets reminds me of other cities My Love and I lived. The beds we shared. Her thin arms around my waist filled me with hope. We vowed we’d die intertwined. Now when we embrace it’s not for want, or love, but habit.

I pull a copy of London Bridge by Céline from my bag. I sit on the stoop out of the way and in the sun. The concrete under my ass is cool. Spring is an infant struggling for breath. And winter in this city is a weight upon its chest.

Pages turn. Strangers pass. A dog gets close enough for me to smell its breath. The owner looks away when I smile. I read until I hear a slow drawl ask how you doing? I look up. Another woman who works here. A hint of the south in everything she does. We live many lives before we die.

Hey, says The Employee from behind me, can I leave... I want to go... I’ve had enough. I look over my shoulder and see her tap a watch amidst a collection of bracelets and bangles. Clanging against one another they sound like chattering insects.

Sure thing honey... you get on out of here... it’s time to go home The Southerner says with warmth in her voice.

The Employee exits the laundromat in a storm of bags. I scoot out of the way but take a hit. Standing on the sidewalk wagging her finger she says be careful... he’s crazy... he touch my hand... don’t take no shit. Without looking up from the book I make it clear she’s not talking about me.

Walking through the door The Southerner touches my shoulder.

Which reminds me of My Love and better days. At first her hands were tender. She was kind when I didn’t know what it meant. Friends said we were special. Now we’re not and it's getting blurry picturing what they saw in us they didn’t have themselves.

The Client stumbles out with a big black garbage bag over his shoulder. He weaves down the block. A woman’s winter coat hangs long enough to hide his skid marked underwear. Without any pants his feet look huge in dirty sneakers.

Is that what I was once?

It’s dark when I leave the apartment. My shadow recedes and grows under street lights. I keep my hands in my pockets. The hood of my parka lies flat on my back. My steps are slow. My breath is visible.

When I returned from the laundromat the place was empty save for a note saying I’m going to be late... will you meet me at the metro? My Love doesn’t say where she went but I know. A friend’s house in the suburbs. There she’ll get what she wants. People are hard for me without booze. I often miss my own decline.

So I do what I’ve always done to clear my mind. I stuff my hands into my pockets. The sidewalk moving under my feet feels better than standing still. I pass a bar as people fall out the door in a breeze of laughter. Music follows. I smack my lips. I’m always thirsty. I put my head down. I hurry away from my weakness.

My Love and I have lived in this city ten years now. I remember being young when we moved though I wasn’t. My Love was scared of being so far from everything she knew. For me it sounded divine. I came first. She followed a month later with all of our things.

We were never the same.

I walk by cute little bistros and boulangeries that were massage parlours and mattress stores when we moved here. Change comes slowly. And before you notice everything is different. I never believed what My Love and I shared would sour. I thought we were stronger than time.

Is love any different than arrogance?

A man bumps me as he hurries by holding the hand of a woman. In them I see what we were. And I imagine them going to the darkly lit restaurant on the corner. The one with the long terrace that’s never empty in the summer, where beautiful people take photos of food to prove they’ve been there.

My Love would probably like it.

I stop on the sidewalk. I take a big gulp of the night. Music from a taqueria fills the air. Car horns honk. A group of college girls giggle by with glassy eyes. All weeks come to an end. Friends get together to blow off steam. That’s how I met My Love. Abandon is what I miss the most.

My knuckles are white from holding on.

My Love and I sit in a booth at the back of an old casse-crôute we’re familiar with. The overhead lights flicker. Grease hangs in the air. I swipe crumbs off the table with the back of my hand. They stick to the soft blonde hair. My Love laughs when I tell her to make a wish.

I smell beer on her breath as she blows.

My Love fills me in about her night. She saw people from her old job. She mentions a man and her face is bright with happiness like I don’t see any more. My reflection stares back from her glassy eyes. I used to find my future there.

The Waitress approaches. She’s familiar. Her skin glistens under the fluorescents. Her chestnut eyes are caring. She pushes a strand of sweaty hair from her face. She looks like she’s been on her feet all day and has hours to go. My voice is soft when I order.

Je prends un trio poutine et cheeseburger deluxe. She scribbles it on a pad. Et pour elle un petit poutine... et deux verres d’eau s’il vous plait... c’est tout, merci.

The Waitress replies parfaite before walking off. A fly buzzes in the air. A television hanging in the corner plays a dubbed version of Robocop. Hein, tu veux toujours vivre? one crook asks another. Self-destruction sounds so beautiful in French.

I’m cold, My Love says. I lay my hands on the table palms up. She places hers in mine. They fit like Russian dolls. We used to lie side by side saying our bodies were made for one another, proof of true love. She misses the me I used to be. I don’t know why.

Quitting seemed like doing something right for once.

Because I’d black out and fall down. Pass out in a ditch. Get brought home by the cops. But My Love always took me in. She’d make me something to eat and listened as I roared. In the morning she’d laugh as she told me who I really was. I gave her the ups and downs she craved.

Then I took them all away.

So I’ve lost her to parties and friends. Nights in restaurants and concerts. All the things we used to enjoy together. In saving my life I failed the only one who bothered to care. Bettering myself ruined us. Releasing the bottle was the first step toward the end.

The Waitress sets down our food. White plastic bowls of fries with steaming gravy melting the cheese curds. A burger made by hands not machines. Bon appetite she says.

Smiling, My Love uses her fork like a weapon. Cheese curds become strings as she brings a mouthful to her lips. I pick the burger off the plate. It’s heavy. First bite and the grease burns my tongue. Before My Love can ask I slide it across the table.

She chomps down. An entire slice of bacon comes off and she laughs saying oops in a voice so cute it’s hard to be bothered about the loss. So much is already gone. A voice I haven’t heard for months slowly whispers, you know how to get it back... love is in the bottom of a bottle.

I’m scared.