Laundry Mat

                 He looked out of place in a coin laundry mat. I can always tell when it's a person's first time. Call it a sixth sense. He set his basket down on top of a folding table and rubbed his chin, eyes searching...I know that look. Every newby gets that look. We meet eyes and his face brightens. Then he's striding towards me, eyes darting here and there. I'm shoving wet clothes into a dryer when he approaches me. I brush back my bangs and look up at my visitor.

                "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just - well I'm new to this whole thing."

                "I guessed as much. You don't really look like the typical coin laundryer."

                He laughs at this, pushing his hair back out of his face. "I forgot my soap."

                I grab my bottle and hand it to him. "Use mine."

                He accepts it with his left hand and reaches out his right. I think he wants to shake my hand. I place my right hand in his and he pumps our clasped hands up and down for a moment before retracting. His head tilts to the side. "You're a lefty aren't you?" I can feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

                "How'd you know?"

                He shrugs, "I took a class on body language. I kinda guessed when I was watching you load your laundry, and confirmed it with that handshake."

                "Hmm, very observant of you."

                "I used to be a lefty. Trained myself to be a righty though. Just more convenient."

                "Lefties have more fun."

                "Is that so?"

                "It is."

                "I'll have to test that theory some time. Thanks for the soap," and then he sauntered back over to attend to his laundry.

                I felt anxious. I'd say half an hour had passed. He was reading the paper. I didn't think anyone read the paper anymore. Other than stock brokers...and he was far too attractive to be a stock broker. Maybe he was the intellectual type. He looks up to turn pages and I forget to avert my eyes. He smiles and waves. I give a half grin. He goes back to reading. I go back to reading him. So far I had gathered the following: he was tall - probably 6, 1", perfectly groomed teeth, coffee drinker (I could smell it on his breath), and a hunch told me he had a tattoo. I racked my brain, trying to think of a reason to go up and talk to him without seeming creepy. Nothing comes to mind. Just then I hear the crinkling of paper. I look up to see him folding up the newspaper and placing it in the seat beside him, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

                I grab a pack of gum from my purse and shove a stick in my mouth. I think chewing will take away my anxiousness, but I quickly realize it doesn't. He stands, stretches, and rubs his hair. Then he walks over to the vending machine; leaning his tall frame against it. I watch intently. B7. Twizlers. Pulling open the wrapper, he rips one off and takes a bite. I reach for another stick of gum. When I look back at him, he's looking straight at me. I sit still. Unsure what to do. he grins again. Why does he keep doing that!? He stands up again, finishing his Twizler and grabbing another, and my bottle of laundry soap.

                "I believe this belongs to you," he says once he's made his way across the laundry mat, to the corner I've tried to tuck myself away in.

                I stand and take it, placing it beside my empty laundry baskets.  "Thanks."

                He nods and takes another bite of his Twizler. "Do you like Twizlers?" he asks, pointing it towards me.

                "Yeah, it's my favorite candy actually."

                "Is it now?" he says, eyebrows raised.

                "Yep."

                "In that case..." he places his hand, palm-side up, in front of my mouth.

                "You want me to spit my gum out?"

                He just nods. My mouth involuntarily forfeits my minty gum. He then places the Twizler to my mouth. I take a bite. There's that grin again. He pops my gum in his mouth, hands me the rest of the Twizler, turns, and walks back towards his chair. I sit back down and finish the candy, hardly tasting it. We're having a staring contest. I can't tell who's winning. Maybe there's no loser in this game. He's chewing my gum, his jaw moving rhythmically. His right arm lying limply over the seat beside him, his right ankle resting on his left knee, his left hand is tracing the patch of five O' clock shadow on his chin. My eyes wander slightly upwards to his lips. They look soft and chewy, like two marshmallows I wanna slurp into my mouth and devour. His eyes are oddly dull for the brightness that seems to radiate from his entire being. On his head lies a mane of thick brown hair. It looks nicely groomed, styled suitably, slicked back with a few loose strands that dangle down in front of his face. He's dressed in a way that says "I care about the way I look, but I don't care enough to spend more than fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning". Today that entails a pair of jeans, and a snugly fitting white T. The fabric strains over his chest...I'm tempted to grab another piece of gum.

                He puts his wet clothes in the dryers. I pull my dry clothes out of the dryers and begin to fold them. He's watching me. I'm not looking at him; but I can feel it. He wants me to look up. He wants me to look at him. I can't muster up the courage, so I just keep my eyes down, admiring my now clean clothes. I hear footsteps approaching. He's standing beside me. I recognize the worn converse. I finally manage to look up at him. He's not chewing anymore. Must've spit out the gum. He's standing very close. I can smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cherry Twizlers. He bends down so we're nearly eye to eye. I smell the sweet on his breath when he finally speaks:

                "We were dying since the day we were born. How long does it take to die?"

                "A million years, and be there much sorrow for we only have but a short span to live."

                "So live, and live well. For sleep soon becomes eternal. Lasting."

                I'm amazed. "How did you- "

                He grabs the book half hanging out of my purse. "I glimpsed it when I first came over. I love Lockwood. He's my favorite poet."

                "I couldn't agree more. He's a rare gem. A true poet among imposters."

                So I was right. He's an intellectual. He leans in a bit closer and whispers, "That thine kiss were like that of an ember, dangerous and smoldering."

                "My lips do kiss to douse the flame that awakens a burning that cannot be numbed."

                His hand traces up my neck, to the nape, entangling his fingers in the waves of my hair. His fingers form a fist around the hair, and he uses it as leverage to pull my face closer to his. Our lips make a few brief encounters, brushing against each other as he speaks.

                "And oh, my maiden, rosy cheeked and fair, arousest thy not what thou' art not trained for."

                He spoke the last few words into my mouth as he kissed me. My lips parted eagerly to taste his. His mouth tasted fruity and minty. His lips were soft, and his kiss was firm. His hands groped my back. We were in a slight backbend over one of the folding tables. When we finally broke away, we stumbled a few feet apart, trying to balance our footing and steady our breathing. His hair was a bit disheveled. He pushed it back nonchalantly as I smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in blouse. Looking around, I noticed we'd acquired an audience. I counted four women, a few scattered children, and an older looking fellow who looked a whole lot like Bill Cosby.

                We smiled at each other, trying to contain our laughter. "Can I tell you something?" I asked.

                "Go ahead," he replied warily.

                "I lied. I hate liquorish."

                He smiled again. "Do you think if I took you to dinner later I could get your name, maybe even your number if I'm well behaved?"

                "There's Starburst over there in that vending machine. Those are my real favorite. I'm in a good mood - if you bring me some, I just might tell you my name. No promises though. I'll be sitting over there," I said pointing at my chair a few feet away. I walk to my chair and sit down, watching him lumber over to the vending machine with that grin on his face.