The Laundrette of Small Goodbyes

How it begins

The machines take forty minutes.

Grief has never been so considerate.

At eleven, a man brings three shirts and a coat too small for him.

He says they need freshening.

I give him a ticket and do not ask who used to wear them.

At twelve, a woman washes the curtains from a room she has already left.

She watches them turn as though one more revolution might bring back the window.

Arthur arrives after the last train.

He carries a sewing tin, a flask, and the expression of a man who has retired without finding a useful place to put his hands.

He sits beside machine four.

The man's coat has a torn pocket.

Arthur notices.

He notices most things that can be held between two fingers and made a little stronger.

"May I?"

The man looks at the coat.

Then nods.

Nobody says this will help.

Nobody says everything happens for a reason.

The needle goes in.

The needle comes out.

By one, the pocket can hold a key again.

Outside, the station clock keeps perfect time for trains that no longer stop.

I wipe the folding table.

Under it is the bag I bring every night.

There is nothing inside.

I have washed it six times because the label says washable and I wanted one thing to be telling the truth.

Arthur sees it.

He does not ask what I have lost.

He asks whether the handle needs stitching.

For a moment I cannot answer.

Then I place it beside his tin.

The machines take forty minutes.

The repair takes seven.

We spend the rest drinking tea that has gone slightly cold.

When the man leaves, he puts his hand inside the mended pocket and finds exactly the space he expected.

He thanks Arthur as if this is a large thing.

Tonight, it is.