Chaos Gremlin

Every time it thunders overhead, the neons flicker. It wouldn't be surprising, Steve supposes, for his bad luck streak to keep and for the entire laundromat to lose power, right when he's in the middle of a wash cycle.

He's perched on a machine in the back of the shop, facing the wet swirl of his clothes against the glass plane of the washer he chucked them in. Above it, the TV is playing some old movie, though the sound's not on. The clock to his right reads 11:09.

He's alone here. He's alone most places. So it makes sense that this place is quiet too, except for the neons flickering, and the rain pattering incessantly against the storefront. Across from him, the machine hums and buzzes, clothes tumbling. The clock ticks.

11:10.

It's hardly ideal, doing his laundry so late at night. Yet again, nothing in Steve's life is ideal, lately. Some time soon, the rain will let up, and the dryer cycle he'll have started will end, and he'll pack everything in his car and get on the road again. This is what he does, now: he drives, destination unknown. Nothing is…clear. None of it makes sense. Every memory he has feels—

What's the word? What's the…saying?

Steve doesn't know why this keeps happening, why thoughts keep getting away from him like this. Ideas, memories, names, phone numbers…all out of reach. He runs a hand over his face, lets the thought drift away. Hopes it'll come back to him, if he needs it.

At 11:11, the bell above the front door sounds, and Steve turns his head to watch somebody barrelling into the shop, soaked from head to toe. He's crouching at first, the stranger, mumbling something incomprehensible. Steve wonders if he's been running, and for how long; wonders if it was already raining when he stepped out, or if he got caught in it. After a few seconds of him hunched over and panting like he's trying to catch his breath, he straightens up and blows a strand of hair out of his face—or tries to. His hair, dark and drenched straight, stays glued to his skin, and he sighs in defeat as he takes in the sight of the empty laundromat until his eyes land on Steve.

Caught staring, Steve feels sheepish. He straightens up, offers a slight wave. Across the shop, the stranger chuckles, waves back, and starts wringing his clothes.

The shop's louder with him in it: his t-shirt's soaked through even underneath his leather jacket, and water falls from it and lands on the tile flooring; his back to Steve now, he keeps huffing and puffing over there, the edges of his voice echoing through the empty store; he paces in circles, big, black combat boots landing against the tile with heavy, wet steps.

Steve realizes he's staring again. He clears his throat, brings his eyes back to the TV. He can ignore the stranger; he's ignored strangers before. Does it all the time. This one's no different, no matter how alone Steve's been, no matter how—

"Some rain, huh?" It's him talking. He talks through a disbelieving smile, though it falters once Steve takes too long to answer.

It's just—his voice. Steve can't put his finger on it, but there's something about it, something…close. Comfortable. It's not quite—if Steve could just—

"Not one for small talk?" The stranger asks, making some kind of aborted gesture at Steve before he starts walking away. "Go figure. Go figure. Go figure," he repeats until he's out of earshot, or until he's mumbling too much for Steve to make the words out clearly. There's something frustrated about his tone, about the way he's shaking his head no and moving his arms aimlessly at his sides, like he's brimming with energy he doesn't know how to let out.

Steve stares at him a little longer. The stranger's got no laundry with him, no bottle of detergent: just the clothes on his back, and the wet hair dripping on the floor, the ghost of curls and the promise of frizz framing his head like a halo. Steve wants to reach over and twirl his hair around his finger, see if the curl will keep. He did that, once. Used to do it with somebody. With…

Fuck.

Gone again.

The stranger walks towards him, something like decisiveness in his step. He stops a few machines away from Steve, close enough that Steve can note how big and brown and alert his eyes are, and how he's fidgeting with his rings like he can't stand to stay still and share the silence.

"I'm, uh—" he starts, big eyes stuck to Steve. The rest of his sentence doesn't come. He runs a hand over his head, leans back against a machine. Crosses his arms. Taps his foot. "This was the only place that was still open, so. You know."

Steve looks out the storefront, tries to make out the rest of the street. But it's all dark out there, and all he can manage is the glimpse of rain under the orange light of the streetlamp. When he looks back at the stranger, he's running both hands over his face now, shoulders rising up and down slightly like he's stifling a laugh. Maybe it's the kind of laugh that's got no humor in it: he looks all wrung out, after all, and he hasn't stopped moving since he's walked in. Maybe he's running from something.

So Steve tries: "I don't know what this movie is, but it's really hard to follow." He points to the TV and returns his hand to his lap.

The stranger cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the screen. He huffs, and says, "It's, uh—North by Northwest. Hitchcock."

Huh. "You a big, uh—" what's the word? What's the damn word? Cine…something. His friend would know. The one with…the one who likes movies. The one with all the…freckles, Steve thinks. He screws his eyes shut for a second or two and tries again: "Are you into movies?"

When he looks at the stranger again, he finds him closer than he was before, and his eyes are all sad. He's got both hands on the machine next to the one Steve's sitting on. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think the stranger was trying to keep himself from reaching out. He's just reading into it, is all.

It's just—

His eyes are so—

"It's always the same one," the stranger offers with a smile, though it does nothing to appease the sorrow in his eyes and the gloomy air he's wearing now.

Steve finds his gaze lingering: lingering on a wicked scar the stranger wears on his face, taking up most of his cheek; lingering on the hint of tattoo over his collarbone, peeking out from underneath his shirt's collar; lingering on the click-click-click of his rings against the metal of the machine as he fidgets, sad eyes stuck on Steve still. Somewhere deep in his mind, something flickers, fighting for his attention. Something glows.

"Do you come here a lot?"

The stranger nods, sniffs. Looks away. Shivers. Looks back at Steve smiling again, saying, "My name's Eddie." He offers his hand for a handshake.