She has that kind of stare that draws you forward, like a moth to a porch light. Maybe it’s the darkness of her eyes but that look is almost murderous. It makes you afraid to tell yourself she’s dressed to kill, because she is.

It’s when she brushed that stray lock of hair out of her eyes and put her hand to her mouth that I knew I was hooked. I wished I was that hand up against her thin face.

Then I realized I was staring at her and she noticed. When she raised her eyebrows at me my eyes darted back down to my laundry, the only thing my eyes focusing on is the multiple shadows that the dull fluorescent lights cast around me.

She can make the most ridiculous things look good. I noticed that three quarters of her laundry is dresses. No shirts. The other quarter is various types of women’s intimate wear.

I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help noticing.

“Damn” I heard her mutter.

I vaulted out the washing machines and stood in front of her. “Need any help?”

Laundromats are the worst place to meet women