Marcus arrived at the laundromat at 10:47 p.m., thirteen minutes early for his shift. He always came early. Not because anyone asked him to, but because the routine mattered. The way he hung his coat on the same hook. The way he counted the quarters in the register twice. The way he wiped down each washing machine, starting from the left corner and moving right.
The fluorescent lights hummed. One tube near the back flickered, had been flickering for three weeks now. He'd told the owner, Mr. Chen, but nothing happened. Nothing ever happened fast here.
He made coffee in the break room. Instant. Black. The same mug with the faded Detroit Tigers logo his mother had given him fifteen years ago, back when she could still remember giving gifts, back when she knew who he was every morning.
The first customer came in at 11:23. A woman dragging two garbage bags full of clothes. She didn't look at him, just fed quarters into machine number seven. People liked seven. Lucky number, they probably thought. Marcus knew better. Seven broke down more than any other machine. But he didn't say anything. People needed their superstitions.
By midnight, the place had settled into its usual rhythm. The drunk college kids had come and gone. The nurse who worked days at Henry Ford Hospital had picked up her uniforms. Now it was just him and the hum of machines, the occasional tumble of sneakers in a dryer.
That's when Elena started coming.
First time was a Tuesday. She pushed through the door at 12:45 a.m., carrying a basket that looked too heavy for her thin arms. Hispanic, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Hard to tell. She had that tired look that made people seem older. Wore scrubs, but not the hospital kind. Dental office, maybe. Veterinary clinic.
"You need change?" he asked.
She looked at him like she'd forgotten other people existed. "What?"
"Change. For the machines."
"Oh. Yeah. Ten dollars."
He counted out the quarters, slid them across the counter in a small plastic cup. She took them without saying thanks. That was fine. People didn't come here at this hour to make friends.
But she kept coming back. Same time, give or take fifteen minutes. Tuesdays and Fridays. Sometimes Sundays. Always the same basket, always the same tired look. After a few weeks, she started nodding when she came in. After a month, she said "hey" when she picked up her change.
One night in February, the snow coming down hard outside, she was folding clothes at the long table near the window. Marcus was mopping the floor, working his way around her.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Mop around me. I can move."
"You're fine where you are."
She went back to folding. A few minutes later: "How long you been working here?"
"Four years."
"Always nights?"
"Always nights."
She nodded like that made sense. Like working nights was something that needed no explanation. Maybe for her it didn't.
March came in cold and wet. Elena's visits became something Marcus found himself expecting, though he wouldn't have called it waiting. Just expecting. The way you expect the sun to come up. Natural. Inevitable.
She started bringing food sometimes. Nothing fancy. Sandwiches from the gas station. Bags of chips. Once, homemade tamales wrapped in aluminum foil.
"My mother made too many," she said, setting them on the counter.
"You don't need to—"
"Just eat them. They're good."
They were good. He ate them during his break, standing in the alley out back, watching the steam rise from the warm corn masa in the cold air.
One night she asked, "You got family?"
"My mother."
"She know you work nights?"
"She doesn't know much anymore. Alzheimer's."
Elena nodded. Didn't say sorry, didn't make a face. Just nodded. He appreciated that.
"What about you?" he asked.
"Separated. Getting divorced. Maybe. I don't know."
"That why you come here at night?"
She laughed, but not like anything was funny. "The apartment's too quiet. And too loud. You know what I mean?"
He did.
April brought rain. The kind that went on for days, turned the parking lot into a lake. Business was slow. Some nights it was just him and Elena and the sound of water running through the gutters.
She started staying longer. Not to do laundry—that never took more than two hours. She'd finish folding, then sit in one of the plastic chairs near the vending machines, reading paperback novels she pulled from her purse. Romance novels with covers showing men with impossible abs, women in flowing dresses. She'd catch him looking and shrug.
"Don't judge. They're predictable. I like predictable."
"I'm not judging."
"You're smiling."
"Am I?"
"A little."
He was.
One night she brought a bottle of wine. Cheap stuff, twist-off cap.
"You drink on the job?" she asked.
"Mr. Chen checks the cameras."
"Not back here he doesn't." She nodded toward the break room.
They sat at the small table where Marcus usually ate his lunch. She poured wine into two paper cups from the water cooler.
"This is probably illegal," he said.
"Probably."
They drank in silence for a while. The wine was too sweet, gave him a headache almost immediately. But he drank it anyway.
"My husband," she said suddenly. "Ex-husband. Whatever. He used to work nights too. Security guard at the casino. That's how we met. Both of us up when everyone else was sleeping. Felt like we were the only two people in the world."
"What happened?"
"The sun came up." She poured more wine. "Turns out we didn't have much to say to each other in daylight."
May was almost summer, the air heavy and thick even at night. The laundromat's air conditioning struggled, made noises like it was dying. Marcus brought a fan from home, set it up near the folding table. Elena sat in front of it sometimes, letting it blow her hair back, eyes closed.
"You ever think about doing something else?" she asked one night.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything. Day job. Different city. Whatever."
"I've got my mother to think about."
"Right. But if you didn't. If it was just you."
He thought about it. "I don't know. This is what I know how to do."
"Wash clothes?"
"Be around when people need clean clothes."
She smiled. A real smile, not the tired ones she usually gave. "That's a nice way to put it."
June came in like a fever. The city baked. Kids opened fire hydrants, sent water streaming down the streets. The laundromat stayed busy later, people trying to escape apartments without air conditioning.
Elena showed up on a Wednesday, not her usual night. She looked different. Hair pulled back tight, wearing jeans instead of scrubs.
"Day off?" Marcus asked.
"Got fired."
"What happened?"
"Showed up late one too many times. Hard to wake up for a seven a.m. shift when you don't fall asleep until four."
She sat in her usual chair, but didn't take out a book. Just sat there watching the washers spin.
"You'll find something else," Marcus said.
"Yeah."
"You will."
She looked at him. Really looked at him, maybe for the first time. "You're a good person, Marcus."
"I'm just—"
"A good person. Take the compliment."
July fourth came and went. Fireworks somewhere in the distance, the sound muffled by the brick walls. Elena hadn't been in for a week. Marcus told himself it didn't matter. People came and went. That was the nature of the job. You saw them for a while, then you didn't.
But she came back the next Tuesday. Thinner, circles under her eyes darker.
"Where you been?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Around."
She did her laundry in silence. When she was folding, he brought her coffee. The good stuff he kept hidden in the back, not the instant.
"Thanks," she said.
"You okay?"
"Daryl's been calling. My ex. Wants to talk."
"You going to?"
"I don't know. Maybe. He says he's changed."
"People don't change much."
"No?"
Marcus thought about his mother, how she'd changed, become someone else entirely. But that was different. "Not usually," he said.
August was the worst month. The heat pressed down like a weight. The laundromat smelled of detergent and sweat and something else, something stale and defeated. Marcus's mother had been hospitalized twice. The bills were piling up. He'd taken extra shifts, days when he could get them, which meant he hadn't slept more than four hours straight in weeks.
Elena could tell. She brought him food more often. Real food, not gas station sandwiches. Rice and beans. Soup in a thermos. Salad in a plastic container.
"You need to eat," she'd say.
"I eat."
"Real food."
"This is too much trouble for you."
"It's not trouble."
One night, she fell asleep in the chair while waiting for her dryer. Marcus watched her sleep, her head tilted back, mouth slightly open. She looked younger sleeping. Peaceful. He thought about waking her when the dryer buzzed, but didn't. Let her sleep until she woke on her own, startled, disoriented.
"What time is it?"
"Three-thirty."
"Shit. I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Falling asleep on you."
"You're tired."
"We're all tired."
She folded her clothes quickly, embarrassed. When she left, she touched his shoulder. Just for a second. Just a touch. But Marcus felt it for hours after.
September brought a break in the heat. Kids went back to school. The laundromat quieted down. Marcus and Elena fell into their routine. She'd found a new job, cleaning offices. Still nights, but better pay. She seemed lighter somehow. Smiled more.
"I told Daryl no," she said one night, out of nowhere.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Told him I was done. Really done. Filed the papers and everything."
"Good for you."
"You think?"
"I think you know what's best for you."
She laughed. "Do I? I work nights cleaning toilets and spend my free time in a laundromat talking to—" She stopped.
"Talking to the laundromat guy," Marcus finished.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant."
They were quiet for a while. Then Elena said, "You're not just the laundromat guy."
"No?"
"No."
October turned the leaves on the few trees along the street yellow and brown. Halloween decorations went up in windows. Marcus's mother was moved to a care facility. Medicare would cover some of it. Some wasn't enough, but it was what it was.
Elena helped him clean out his mother's apartment. Showed up on a Saturday morning with boxes and tape and trash bags.
"You don't need to do this," he said.
"Shut up and tell me what to keep."
They worked all day, sorting through a life. Photos. Letters. Clothes that still smelled like the perfume his mother wore. Elena was gentle with everything, even the trash.
"She was beautiful," she said, holding up a photo from the seventies. His mother in a sundress, laughing at something outside the frame.
"Yeah, she was."
"You look like her."
"People used to say that."
They ordered pizza, ate it sitting on the floor of the empty living room. The sun was setting, painting the walls orange.
"Thank you," Marcus said.
"You'd do the same for me."
"Would I?"
"Yeah. You would."
November came in cold and gray. Thanksgiving passed without much notice. Marcus worked. Elena worked. The world kept spinning.
The night it happened was a Thursday. Nothing special about it. Just another Thursday. Marcus was fixing the quarter machine that had been jamming. Elena was reading one of her novels. Normal. Routine.
Then the door opened, and a man walked in. White guy, mid-thirties, wearing an expensive-looking jacket that didn't belong in this neighborhood. He looked around, his eyes landing on Elena.
"Hey, baby," he said.
Elena's whole body went rigid. She put down her book slowly, carefully, like it might break.
"Daryl."
"Been looking for you."
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me. But we need to talk. Really talk."
Marcus stood up from behind the counter. Daryl noticed him for the first time.
"Who's this?"
"Nobody," Elena said quickly. "Just—he works here."
"Yeah? Well, nobody needs to mind his own business."
Marcus stayed where he was. Watching. Elena stood up, grabbed her basket even though her clothes were still in the dryer.
"Let's talk outside," she said to Daryl.
"We can talk here."
"Daryl, please."
"What, you embarrassed? Embarrassed of me? In front of him?" He gestured at Marcus. "In front of the help?"
"Don't," Elena said. Her voice was different. Smaller. "Just don't."
Daryl moved closer to her. Not threatening, exactly. But not not threatening either. Marcus came around the counter.
"She asked you to go outside," he said.
Daryl turned. "I told you to mind your business."
"This is my business. My laundromat."
"Your laundromat?" Daryl laughed. "You own this place?"
"I work here. It's my shift. That makes it mine."
"Marcus, it's okay," Elena said.
But it wasn't okay. Marcus could see that. Could see it in the way she held herself, the way she kept the folding table between her and Daryl.
"You should go," Marcus said to Daryl.
"Or what? You'll call the cops? Go ahead. Call them. I'll tell them about you and my wife. How you've been sniffing around her."
"Ex-wife," Elena said. "Ex."
"Not until the papers are signed, baby. And I haven't signed shit."
He grabbed Elena's arm. Not hard, but sudden. She dropped her basket, clothes spilling onto the floor.
Marcus moved without thinking. Not fast, not aggressive. Just moved. Put his hand on Daryl's wrist.
"Let go," he said.
Daryl let go of Elena, jerked away from Marcus. "Don't fucking touch me."
"Then leave."
They stood there, the three of them, in a triangle. The fluorescent light flickered. A washer buzzed, cycle complete.
"This is pathetic," Daryl said, looking at Elena. "Really pathetic. Him? This is what you want?"
"I want you to leave," Elena said.
"Fine. But this isn't over. We're married. That means something."
"Not anymore."
Daryl shook his head. "You'll be back. When you get tired of this." He waved his hand around the laundromat. "Whatever this is. You'll be back."
He left, the door slamming behind him. Elena sank into a chair, shaking. Marcus knelt down, started picking up her scattered clothes.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Nothing to be sorry for."
"I didn't think he'd—I didn't know he knew I came here."
"It's okay."
"It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay."
Marcus sat back on his heels, looking up at her. "No. But it will be."
She laughed, wiping her eyes. "You think?"
"Yeah. I do."
December. The laundromat strung with cheap tinsel. A small plastic tree on the counter. Marcus's mother didn't recognize him anymore when he visited. Called him by his father's name. His father who'd been dead twenty years.
Elena came in two weeks before Christmas, no laundry basket.
"Just wanted to tell you," she said. "I'm moving."
Marcus felt something drop in his chest. "Yeah?"
"My sister in Phoenix. She's got room. Got a job lined up for me. Days."
"That's good. That's really good."
"It is."
They stood there, the counter between them.
"When?" he asked.
"After New Year's."
"Okay."
"Marcus—"
"It's good. Really. Day job. Phoenix. Sunshine."
"You could—" She stopped.
"What?"
"Nothing. Stupid."
"What?"
"You could come visit. If you wanted. Phoenix isn't that far."
"No. It's not far."
But they both knew he wouldn't. Couldn't. Not with his mother. Not with his life anchored here.
"I'll miss this," she said.
"The laundromat?"
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I know."
She came around the counter. Hugged him. Quick, awkward, but real. She smelled like fabric softener and something else, something that was just her.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
"You too."
She left. Marcus stood there for a long time, listening to the machines run their cycles. Wash. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
January was bitter cold. The laundromat was busy, people washing heavy coats and blankets. Marcus worked his shifts. Counted quarters. Mopped floors. Fixed machines when they broke.
A postcard came in February. The Grand Canyon on the front. On the back, Elena's handwriting: "Day shift is weird. Miss the quiet. Miss the night. -E"
He kept it in his wallet. Looked at it sometimes during the long, quiet hours.
March came around again. A year since Elena first started coming regularly. The laundromat looked the same. Sounded the same. Smelled the same. But felt different. Emptier.
A woman came in one night. Young, tired-looking. Dragging a basket that looked too heavy.
"You need change?" Marcus asked.
She looked at him, surprised. Like she'd forgotten other people existed.
"What?"
"Change. For the machines."
"Oh. Yeah. Five dollars."
He counted out the quarters, slid them across in a plastic cup. She took them without saying thanks. That was fine. People didn't come here to make friends.
But she came back the next week. Same time. Same tired look. After a few weeks, she started nodding when she came in.
One night, she was folding clothes at the long table. Marcus was mopping, working around her.
"You don't have to do that," she said. "I can move."
"You're fine where you are."
She went back to folding. A few minutes later: "You work here every night?"
"Most nights."
"That's rough."
"It's not so bad. Quiet."
She nodded. "I like quiet."
Marcus finished mopping. Went back behind the counter. The woman folded her clothes methodically, precisely. When she was done, she looked over at him.
"Same time next week?" she asked.
"I'll be here."
"Good," she said. "It's nice. Having someone else around. You know?"
"Yeah," Marcus said. "I know."
She left. Marcus watched her go, then went back to his routine. Wiped down the machines. Counted the quarters. Made his instant coffee in the same Detroit Tigers mug.
The fluorescent light still flickered. He still hadn't told Mr. Chen about it. Some things didn't need fixing. They just were what they were.
Outside, Detroit went on living its night life. Sirens in the distance. Cars passing. People going about their business in the dark. And Marcus in the laundromat, keeping watch over the machines, the quarters, the people who needed clean clothes. Being there. Being constant.
The washer in the corner started making that grinding noise again. He'd have to look at it tomorrow. Or the next day. There was time. There was always time in a place like this, where the cycles just kept spinning, over and over, wash, rinse, spin, repeat, until the clothes were clean, until the night was over, until the sun came up and reminded everyone that there was another world out there, a world where people slept at normal hours and worked normal jobs and lived normal lives.
But that wasn't his world. His world was here, in the fluorescent hum and the spin of machines, in the small kindnesses between strangers, in the quiet hours before dawn when anything seemed possible, even if nothing ever changed.
He thought about Elena's postcard. Day shift is weird. He smiled a little. Yeah, he bet it was. But she'd get used to it. People got used to things. That's what people did.
The new woman's dryer buzzed. She'd forgotten something in it, a single sock. Marcus retrieved it, set it on the folding table for next week. She'd be back. They always came back, the regulars. Until they didn't.
But that was okay too. That was just how things went, in the spin cycle of the world.