Wash 2
Teddy let out a long sigh as he stared at the seven more loads of laundry
waiting for him. His hands were already pruned
from the hours spent scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing out clothes. A mountain of damp fabric sat beside
him, and the dry ones—neatly
pressed and folded—loomed over him like a silent, taunting reminder that his work
was far from done. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the fatigue, and bent down
to continue scrubbing.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a faint glow flickering across the rooftop. The apartment building
across from his own stood parallel, and he knew that window well—Drew’s window.
The light flicked on, illuminating the room, and there he was. Teddy swallowed hard.
Drew, the impossibly handsome college soccer player, was standing there, right in front of his window.
Teddy’s breath
hitched as he watched him grab the hem of his shirt and peel it off,
exposing a sculpted torso that looked
like it belonged in
a glossy sports magazine. The fabric landed on the floor in a crumpled heap.
Teddy felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his neck, but he wasn’t sure
if it was from the steam rising
from the warm laundry water or the sheer intensity of what he was witnessing.
Drew reached down, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Teddy’s heart rate spiked.
He was going to do it.
He was going to—
Off went the pants, revealing a pair of tight white briefs.
Teddy almost yelped. He gripped the edge of the laundry basin so hard his knuckles
turned white. His gaze flickered around, as if searching for an escape route,
but he was trapped—helplessly drawn
to the sight before him.
And then, just as Drew’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his briefs, just as Teddy felt like his soul
was about to leave his body—
Drew pulled the curtains shut.
Teddy nearly collapsed backward into the laundry pile. He sucked in a sharp breath, pressing a hand against
his forehead.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath.
He was almost forty. He was broke. He lived in a crumbling rooftop apartment where paying rent was a
monthly game of survival. His job—if one could even call it that—was washing other people’s laundry, and
his only consistent responsibility was taking care of his mother, who acted more like a hormonal teenager
than an actual adult.
And here he was, practically hyperventilating over a guy who didn’t even know he existed.
With a groan, he turned back to his washing, forcing himself to focus on the relentless scrubbing.
But just as he reached for another soaked shirt, Drew’s curtain flung open again.
Teddy froze.
His heart stopped.
Was Drew looking at him? Did he know? Had he seen—?
No. It was impossible. Right?
The uncertainty sent a shiver down Teddy’s spine. He quickly dunked the shirt into the soapy water,
acting as if his very soul hadn’t just been momentarily ripped from his body.
——————————————————-
Meanwhile, across town, Miguel and Sylvia sat in a crammed, dimly lit barbecue joint that smelled of smoke
and overcooked meat.
Sylvia adjusted her cherry red skirt, glancing around the restaurant with barely concealed disappointment.
This was not the candlelit, romantic dinner she had envisioned. The patrons—mostly factory and farm
workers—were laughing boisterously
in Spanish, their arms glistening with sweat from a long day's labor.
Miguel, looking exhausted, gnawed on a slab of ribs that appeared so dry it might as well have been jerky.
His lips were smeared with cheap barbecue sauce, and Sylvia wrinkled her nose at the sight.
She picked up a fork and half-heartedly prodded her plate before dropping it with a sigh. A sharp
voice cut through the noise.
“Why aren’t you eating the food?”
Sylvia turned to find the waitress—a fiery-eyed Guatemalan woman—standing beside her table, arms crossed.
“I don’t like it,” Sylvia said, her voice dripping with exasperation. “The meat is tough.”
The waitress's face twisted into amusement, then she threw her head back and let out a loud, cackling laugh.
“She said the ribs are tough!” she hollered, and suddenly, half the restaurant was laughing along with her.
Sylvia blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”
Before she could react, the waitress reached over, grabbed Sylvia’s plate, and—without hesitation—
began eating her ribs right in front of her.
Sylvia gasped, watching in horror as the woman chewed loudly. “Are you serious right now?!” she shrieked.
Miguel groaned. “Sylvia, what are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What is she doing?! That psycho just stole my plate!”
The laughter in the restaurant turned darker as a few men stood up, their gazes sharp. One of them
flexed his fingers around the handle of a machete.
Miguel immediately tossed some bills onto the table, grabbed Sylvia’s wrist, and yanked her toward the door.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
Sylvia stumbled after him. “But my ribs—”
“Sylvia!”
They burst onto the main highway bridge, the golden hues of the sunset stretching over the city skyline.
The air was cooler here, less suffocating, but the weight of the moment pressed down on both of them.
Sylvia turned to Miguel, pouting. “I don’t get it. What did I do?”
Miguel exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples. “Exactly. What did you do?”
She folded her arms. “Well, whatever. I had a nice time with you. That’s what counts. I mean, those
people back there were crazy.”
Miguel’s jaw tightened. He turned to face her fully. “Sylvia, it’s over.”
Sylvia blinked. “Over?”
Miguel nodded. “This. Us. I don’t like you. I don’t love you.”
Sylvia scoffed, waving him off. “Oh, don’t worry about the ribs. We’ll find a bar and—”
“Sylvia,” Miguel cut her off. “This isn’t working. I’m not attracted to you. Don’t you get that?”
Her face twisted. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Miguel’s patience snapped. “Sylvia, you’re almost sixty! Look at yourself! I can’t even get a hard-on for you!”
Sylvia gasped, clutching her chest as if physically wounded. “How dare you?!”
She fumbled for her pocket mirror, quickly applying a fresh coat of lipstick between panicked breaths.
But her hands shook so badly that she ended up smearing it across her cheek. In her frustration, she bit down
on the lipstick itself, then choked on it.
Miguel shook his head. “I’m calling you a taxi.”
As the taxi pulled up, Sylvia gasped for air, still flustered and messy, but before she could say another word,
Miguel shoved her inside and slammed the door.
He watched as the taxi sped off into the fading sunset, exhaling a cloud of smoke from his cigarette.
This was never about Sylvia. It had always been about Teddy.
