Wash 26
Teddy ran.
His breath ragged, chest burning, soles pounding the wet pavement.
The night shimmered around him—reflections of neon signs and traffic
lights splintered across puddles like broken stained glass.
Rain drizzled from the low sky, catching on his lashes,
soaking his clothes until they clung to him
like the weight of everything he was trying to outrun.
He turned into a narrow alley,
where the concrete walls were slick with moss and the smell of damp cardboard
and fried oil hung thick in the air.
A sudden gust made him stagger—he nearly lost his balance,
his foot sliding over a loose soda can—but he kept going.
He couldn’t stop.
Not now.
Not with his heart in pieces and his arms cradling laundry
like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
As he rounded the corner, tires softly crunched over gravel.
A familiar motorbike purred to a stop beneath the old tree by the streetlamp.
The Taco Guy swung his leg over the bike
just as the heavens gave way again.
Rain.
DAMN THOSE RAINS.
Teddy didn’t even notice him at first.
He pushed himself harder,
sprinting through the downpour until his foot slipped
on a slick patch of moss-covered pavement.
He hit the ground hard,
crashing onto his laundry bag.
A sharp gasp escaped him as the world
tilted sideways—drenched, bruised, exhausted.
And then—there was a hand.
Steady. Dry.
An umbrella bloomed above him like a quiet shield.
“You alright?”
That voice.
Teddy blinked up through the rain.
The Taco Guy stood over him,
dark curls plastered to his forehead,
his shirt spotted with water, but his eyes… his eyes were calm. Kind.
“Taco Guy?” Teddy said, dazed.
The Taco Guy smiled, offering his hand.
“Hello, Teddy. Are you okay?”
Teddy turned his head sideways. “No…I don’t think I’m ok.”
The Taco guy reached out.
He starts to pull Teddy up.
Slowly.
On Teddy’s terms.
Teddy hesitated, then he let himself be pulled up.
Their hands touched just a moment longer than necessary.
A shiver, not from the cold.
He didn’t even realize his knees were scraped
until he saw the dirt on his jeans.
“Maybe we should grab some coffee, get that wound check out”
the Taco Guy said, his voice low and almost… gentle.
“Or just… get out of this pesky rain?”
Teddy nodded.
The rain masked the tears on his face.
Without another word, the Taco Guy picked up Teddy’s soaked laundry bag,
slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
They ducked into a tiny 24-hour convenience store.
Warm lights buzzed overhead.
The windows were fogged from the inside.
Teddy dropped into the plastic booth by the glass wall,
staring blankly into the night as water dripped from his hoodie.
The Taco Guy returned moments later with two steaming cups.
He didn’t ask how Teddy took his coffee—he just knew.
Cream. Two sugars. No words.
He then rolled Teddy’s jeans and clean the scrapes off.
He applied a taped gauze like a seasoned wound Nurse.
Teddy thanked him, he sipped in silence, warming his hands on the cup.
BOTH HAD NOTHING TO SAY.
Just silence.
Outside, the rain bled neon colors across the street
like a watercolor painting melting in real time.
The Taco Guy didn’t press.
He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he
could wait a thousand years if Teddy needed him to.
Finally, Teddy whispered,
“Aren’t you gonna ask me why?”
The Taco Guy looked at him with a soft shrug.
“Only the things you want to tell me.”
Teddy exhaled.
“Why does life have to be so complicated?”
“Because,” the Taco Guy said, glancing toward the glass,
“that’s the way things are. No easy buttons.
Just… storms we have to ride through. No matter how long.”
Teddy smiled faintly, the corner of his lips tugging like it forgot how to be happy.
“I still haven’t stopped by your place, like you said… always on a laundry emergency.”
The Taco Guy laughed. “That’s right. You haven’t missed anything, though.
Honestly, it’s worse now. You won’t make it past the front door
unless you wanna be buried under a mountain of socks and regrets.”
They both laughed.
A real one this time. Small but healing.
And for a moment—just a brief flicker in the noisy universe—it felt
like they were the only two people alive.
Then the spell broke.
Teddy’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
Cliff.
The Taco Guy looked away, sipping his coffee with forced casualness.
But Teddy saw it—the subtle flicker of something behind his eyes.
Jealousy? Maybe.
Or maybe it was something deeper.
Teddy picked up the call.
Nodded once. “Yeah… okay. Someone’s coming to pick me up.”
But before he could finish, headlights sliced through the rain outside.
Cliff’s black SUV screeched to a halt.
Seconds later, the door to the convenience store flew open,
and Cliff stormed inside—hair windswept, eyes wild with possessiveness.
He didn’t say a word.
He just grabbed Teddy by the arm and pulled him out
like the world owed him something.
Teddy looked back at the Taco guy, stunned, barely able to mutter, “Thank you…”
The Taco Guy just stood there. Watching.
Silent. Still. Forgotten for now.
The door swung shut.
The only thing left was the soft clatter of the rain,
and the warmth of the untouched coffee across from him.
Beside the table, Teddy had left his laundry bags.
The Taco Guy stared at them for a moment, then stood.
He gathered them, slung them over his shoulder,
and walked out into the night.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up to Teddy’s apartment.
The hallway lights flickered like always.
The door wasn’t locked. He hesitated, then stepped inside.
Everything smelled like Teddy. Warm. Messy. Lonely.
He set the laundry bags down gently, as if they might break.
For a second, he stood there. Listening to the quiet.
Then he pulled the door shut behind him.
Across the street, a cigarette glowed in the dark.
Drew.
He stood under a broken awning, drenched, staring. He’d seen everything.
Smoke curled from his lips as a single tear slid down his cheek.
No words. Just rain.
And pain.
