40
Supersuds is like any other laundrette. Wall-to-wall washing machines and top-loading dryers. Big, old coin-operated things. Boxes of cheap washing powder and baskets of clothes left on top. There's an empty counter at the far end. A rack of dry-cleaned items hung up in white covers. And two rows of red plastic chairs, back to back.
It's dark outside by the time I enter. An obese black woman in a purple velour tracksuit sits alone inside. She has short, platinum blonde hair and a bored expression. She does the crossword on the back of a newspaper.
I peel off my bomber jacket and pull my t-shirt off over my head.
The woman pretends not to look. Raises an eyebrow. Huffs to herself.
I kick off my boots and socks. I unbuckle my jeans and step out of the legs.
Damn, I wore the Donald D
