6:57pm, the outskirts of the gray indutrial sections of Pittsburgh, a small corner Laundromat.
A rich, humid, soap-laden air sweetened by warming dryer sheets and fabric softeners.
An ashtray. A single cigarette resting. A smoker, asleep against her hand in the third baby-blue plastic seat in a linked row of five set against the glass wall storefront. A flip-flop dangles and falls off of her foot perched upon her knee. It unsettled the layers of holy lint on the tarnished, dark blue vinyl tile floor.
Four ceiling fans hum; dryers harmonize; and, washers maintain their rhythm. A small a.m. radio on a high shelf struggles to receive Patsy Cline from a local station. The hand-written, cardboard sign with a smily face sticker in front of the radio asks patrons: "Please do not change stations."
A black grandmother dances with her grand daughter near the worn folding tables in the rear, each hand-in-hand, each rocking left-to-right, each with there faces to the lint-covered drop ceiling, each with their eyes closed, each thankful.
An elderly man sits in a wheelchair near a wall-mounted vending machine that sells colorful mini-boxes of detergents. He reads a well-thumbed magazine about hunting dogs and shotguns. He is lost in an article. He is envisioning streams and kaki vests and crisp early mornings.
The fluorescent lights from this shrine and haven beam brilliantly through the windows at the front of the building, illuminating the corner of this block 24 hours each day, including Christmas and even New Year.
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