The Public Act

The woman folds the towel once.

Then again. Then a third time,

each crease repositioned like she's looking

for the right place to let go.

Under the fluorescent grid—

that flat, merciless light that makes everyone

look like they're apologizing for something—

her hands move with the precision of prayer,

though she's not praying. She's folding.

The towel doesn't need refolding.

She folds it anyway.

My washer broke. That's why I'm here,

in this room that smells like detergent

and the low hum of everyone's private failures

made public. The machines cycle. The dryers

buzz their alarms. Nobody comes for them right away.

The woman's towel is getting smaller

with each fold. Or maybe I'm just watching her

shrink the world down to something

she can hold.

I recognize this. The repetition.

The way you keep doing something

even after it's done,

because stopping means admitting

that nothing's getting fixed,

that some things are already the way they're going to be.

She folds the towel once more,

and I look away. Not to give her privacy—

there's no privacy in a laundromat—

but because I know what I'd see in her face,

and I'm not ready to see it in my own yet.

When my wash is done, I'll move it to the dryer.

I'll come back in thirty minutes.

I'll sit on a plastic chair

and pretend I'm not here. Pretend

this is temporary. Pretend my hands

aren't learning how to do the same thing

over and over again.