92/365

With a washer working at half speed and a larger than average number of sheets and towels needing to be washed, I headed to the neighborhood laundromat.

That smell of detergent and fabric softener and dry cleaning and clean floors and 8 hours old coffee in the percolator.
The circle eyes of dryer doors and shining tile floors and dated wood paneling and wheeled-baskets lined up in a row.
The border mix of country and Tejano music floating from above and the spin of the washers and the rumble of the dryers and the rising voices of a debate in Spanish in the far corner.
And then friends who bring me a drink and even help me fold in the middle of it all.

Just over an hour, and I leave with clean linens, folded and stacked in a basket, ready to be stored for the next use.

I'm pretty sure I could be a great laundromat owner...