Well, even hot guys have to get their clothes washed, Paige thought as she looked up from the book she was reading. The short-haired gentleman was trying to look nonchalant as he manhandled a cart full of dirty clothes into the 24 hour laundromat. He wasn’t doing a good job, as the cart got stuck in the door. She got up and went to the door, holding it open for him.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice holding a slight accent that she couldn’t place. French Canadian? That wasn’t too far from here, maybe an 8 hour drive. So it could be possible.
She smiled at him, noting his light blue eyes, handsome face and black short hair. He looked like a professional of some sort, out of place in the laundromat. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans. She noted his shoes were cowboy boots, which was unusual in this Yankee town of Middleboro. She wondered if he was from around here.
He surveyed the laundromat, looking around. She also looked around and noticed there were only two customers; herself and some guy snoring on a chair in front of the TV. It was late for her to be out, but she wouldn’t be able to come her on the usual Saturday afternoon, since she wouldn’t be around town.
She went back to her seat and her book, but kept watching him out of the corner of her eye. She tried not to stare, but it was a lot better to watch his muscles move under the t-shirt than watching the guy in front of the TV sleep, or the bored clerk keep switching the channels on the TV looking for something interesting.
Stop it, for crying out loud. Well, it had been a long time. It wasn’t like this guy was hiding anything.
He finished loading his washer, and bought soap from the vending machine. She nodded to herself as she added two and two – this guy’s washer was broken, and he didn’t come to the laundromat often. He used soap and fabric softener. She continued to add, and deduced that he had to be gay, because most men weren’t that meticulous about their laundry.
She sighed, and went back to her book. At the moment, Renaissance England was more accessible than he was.
“Excuse me,” she heard him say.
She looked. He was standing right next to her. He smiled, and it lit up his face. She found herself smiling back, and did everything she could to refrain from putting a hand to her fluttering heart. Now she could understand how some people could make people’s hearts beat faster. Looking at him more closely, she studied his good looks, his pitch black hair and light blue almost translucent eyes, a strong neck and broad shoulders…
“Yes?” she finally got out, stopping the list of positive qualities in their tracks.
“May I sit here with you?” Again that accent. Definitely French, but not thick. “It seems I forgot how boring laundromats can be without something to do.”
“Sure, sure!” She moved her purse closer to her and put her book back into her bag.
“What are you reading?”
“Oh, about Mary Boleyn.”
“Anne Boleyn’s sister,” he said, and smiled. “I think King Henry the Eighth was just selfish.”
“Selfish, and a bit of a rebel, since he started the Anglican Church. Though I’m not defending him! I think what he did to Katherine and the rest of his wives was just horrible. All he wanted was a male heir, and he had one in FitzRoy, if he wasn’t a bastard – he could very well have children, it’s just that…” She stopped. The man was smiling gently at her, slightly humorous. “I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “I can kind of go on and on about this.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I haven’t heard such passion about history in a long time.”
“Do you like history too?” she asked. What were the chances?
“Very much. I’m an armchair historian, you could say. Are you a historian?”
“Oh, God, no. I read this stuff for fun. Henry the Eighth was one of the more interesting kings of that era.”
“So was King Louis the Ninth.”
She laughed. “He went through almost as many wives.”
“Four, only four. But enough mistresses to form another household.”
“Probably. Are you French?”
“I was born in France. I have some ties there.”
Ah, Paige thought, nodding. That placed the accent. She could listen to him all day.
“And you?”
“I’m an American. Born and raised in Southboro.”
“I work in Southboro,” he said. “This is the only 24 hour laundromat I could find. My washer, it died this morning. My roommate has to go shopping for a new one tomorrow.”
That reinforced the He’s got to be gay thought, as gay men often referred to their partners as a roommate. She tried not to sigh in sadness. She hoped that she didn’t sound disappointed as she started to speak. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a pharmacist,” he said with a smile. “At the 24 hour Walgreens there.”
“Oh, I know where that is,” she said and smiled also. His smile was infectious. “I don’t go there too often. I, um, try to keep the little guys in business, you know?”
“I know all too well,” he said. “If I didn’t have a twenty percent discount there, I wouldn’t shop there myself.”
Again, she laughed. She was really starting to like this man, gay or not.
“And you? What do you do for work?”
“I work in the Worker’s Comp section for an insurance company. It’s pretty boring.” It actually wasn’t, as she had to often deal with irate patients or equally irate hospitals and physicians, as the wheels of the bureacracy turned ever so slowly in the world of worker’s compensation claims.
“Doing what?”
“Settling claims, making sure things get paid out, reading records, that kind of thing.”
“That sounds interesting, not boring.”
“Oh, there are days…”
He chuckled. “Same here.” He glanced at the washer. She turned around to see that her washer had finished, and was probably done for a while. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, and went to take her clothes out of the washer. She separated it into four dryers and started them up.
“You separate them?”
“They dry faster that way.”
“Ah. I defer to your expertise.”
Paige laughed. “I’ve been doing this for years.”
“You live alone?”
She stopped for a minute. Where did that question come from, and why was he asking? He realized the question, and said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. You probably think I’m a stalker now.”
“No,” she chuckled nervously.
“Yes,” he said.
“I have two cats, Tom and Trixie.”
“I have one roommate, Kyle.”
She did sigh. She caught herself.
He laughed. “He really is a roommate. He takes care of things for me during the daytime while I sleep.” He tilted his head. “Why, you thought–” He stopped at her blush. Again, he laughed, even harder. He has such a deep laugh, it’s genuine, she thought.
“It’s my turn to be sorry,” she said, looking at the floor and feeling the blood rush to her face. She felt like an idiot.
“You’re not the first person to think of me like that,” he said gently. “Come sit back down.”
She sat back in her place, her face burning. Why did she always misread the cues? This wasn’t the first time, she thought to herself, though she refused to go down that path right now.
“So, uh…” He was struggling. She could at least look him in the eyes. “How about those Red Sox?”
She looked up, and smiled, then chuckled at the helpless look on his face. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Bruce. Bruce Aquitaine.”
“Paige Mason.” She held out her hand to shake his. He gave it to her willingly, scooping her hand and holding it, knuckles up. He kissed the air above her knuckles and she giggled. “Do you do that to all the girls you meet?”
“Only the pretty ones,” he said.
Again, she blushed and looked away.
Again, he stammered. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I – it’s…”
She heard him get up. “I’m going to check the machine.”
She nodded and watched him. He walked down the rows of machines, and she sighed to herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. You have to be snarky to the guy, and this is what you get.
When he kissed above her hand, she felt his breath along the fine hairs of the back of her hand. How they tickled, and how he wanted him to actually kiss her hands. And maybe kiss her.
This would ask for too much. She just met the guy, and just got his name, Bruce. She turned to watch the dryers.
He stood waiting for the washer to finish. It wouldn’t be long, but it felt like forever that he was away. She realized at that moment – though it would have been apparent earlier if she wasn’t so embarrassed – that she wanted to get to know him better.
When his washer finished, he gathered his clothes and brought them to the dryer. Separating them into two piles, he put one in the dryer next to hers, and another in the dryer below his. He came walking back. “You have ten minutes on your dryers.”
“I know,” she said.
He sat across from her, not diagonally from her as he did before. “May I ask you out for a proper date?”
She stammered. He didn’t blush. He was serious. He was actually serious. Her heart raced. It was like he had just proposed. Nobody had ever asked her out before. It suddenly got very hot and very small in that laundromat.
“You don’t have to answer right now–”
“Sure!” she said, louder than she intended. “I mean, yes, yes, I’d like that.”
He pulled out his phone; an iPhone, she noticed. She had a simple flip phone as she couldn’t be bothered with smartphones. “Let me take down your number,” he said.