05 April 2014
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...