It's In the Eyes

This is something I'm working on, though I'm not sure where to take it from here. The first draft was set in a confessional booth and had more dialogue. For this version I focused on the setting more and the result surprised me.

Tommy crossed the street. A neon sign was blinking the word Landomat, the letters u and r unlit. The linoleum squares inside reflected a double row of long florescent bulbs. The man behind the counter rested his head in his palm, watching a small television set. A theme song played, starting a new show. Tommy sat on a bench on the left side next to a woman folding clothes over a basket.
Tommy looked through the porthole of a machine. Inside was a storm of swirling colors, drowning in water and foam. He dragged his fingernails across the stubble on his jaw line, turning his face to the side. His eyes fell on the crisp stack of shirts on the bench. The woman stopped folding to scoop up the shirts and throw them in the basket. She moved everything down to the next bench and continued to fold.
Tommy slouched forward and loosened his tie. He hadn’t had time to iron his suit when he got up that day. He had lain awake for hours, the alarm sounding every 9 minutes, watching the light move across the ceiling above his bed.
The TV show audience laughed.
Simon walked down the street. He came near an electric buzz. The lights beside two closed stores stood out, a bug zapper in the night. He looked through the window. A black figure was crumpled up on a bench inside.
Most of the machines were being used. The dryers in the middle were making a jet engine roar. Two voices from the TV on the counter began to yell at each other. The audience responded with a collective “Ooo”.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Simon.
The woman on the next bench scooted her basket further back.
“We should get back to the reception,” said Simon.
Tommy watched the water drain out of the spinning drum. The clothes whirled around the porthole, becoming the pupil of a rolling eye.
Simon’s head was starting to hurt. The smell of detergent and bleach was strong. A few more dryers began to thunder.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Simon raised his voice above the noise.
Tommy looked up. “Did dad say anything before it happened?”
Simon looked at the creases in his brother’s suit. Tommy was the first one to tell him that their dog had died. Tommy was nine, he was seven. Tommy bought him an ice cream sandwich. Simon could only eat half of it.
“He said—“
“Excuse me,” the woman said behind him.
Simon jumped away from the machines and sat on the bench. The woman opened one of the doors and pulled out wet clothes that flopped down into the basket below.
Simon put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Some dryers slowed down to a hum. Simon looked at Tommy, speaking at a normal volume. “He was proud of both of us. I could see it in his eyes”
The man behind the counter erupted in laughter along with the TV. The audience started to applaud. The end credits rolled.
Tommy stood up. “Why was your assistant there?”
“She was at the office.” Simon slipped on some powdered detergent, holding Tommy for support. Simon straightened his jacket. “She was with me when dad collapsed.”
Tommy looked back at the washers. Many were done spinning. The clothes waited for the next step. They would be dried, folded, and, one day, worn.
Simon watched the woman pull out more clothes over her whites. He was reminded of dead fish dumped over ice at the supermarket.
The TV began a different show.

A Name

The plot arc was loosely modeled after James Joyce's short story "Eveline".

Nora’s finger stopped on a name. The M pages of her address book were filled. When she skimmed through the middle of the first page, she laid the pencil she was twirling on the couch. The gray lines of the entry were scuffed, particles of graphite spreading out sideways like a shadow.

The address was for a tiny studio apartment on the ground level of a building that no longer existed. They pinned a sheet over the window so that people across the alley couldn’t look into the corner by the bed.

The name was written the summer Nora became obsessed with cursive. She had used the same loops and lines to fill out the forms for her marriage license, before the clerk asked her to fill them out again in print.

Nora looked up at the picture frames above the fireplace of her parents and college friends. Her fingers tightened around the cover of her book as though they were holding the binding together.

Taped on the studio wall was a string of photo booth pictures. Her hand trembled in the air. She placed them in a book to bring home. They must have slipped out on the bus.

Nora put the book down. She picked up the napkin where a friend had scribbled his number. After dinner they had walked around. They passed an empty lot.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine” she said. She looked down at the sidewalk for a block.

At her door, she tiptoed to kiss him, stretching more than she needed. She opened her eyes and found herself above his eye level. She lowered her heels to the ground.

She picked up the book from her lap, pressing the napkin to the page with her thumb. She picked up the pencil, turned it upside down, and scratched it side to side across the page.