Cheer.

The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet. Anna, my roommate, was usually present and provided most of the noise that filled empty space in the air. But not tonight. No, tonight, she had a date with her new boyfriend. I couldn't help but scoffing as I sat alone on the floor of my bedroom, even though I was alone and knew no one was there to hear my grumpiness or lonliness. The lack of sound in the house was unnerving, and I felt like I was being watched.

Feelings of unpleasantness always came when I found myself alone in the apartment, but those same emotions followed me whenever I was by myself in any given situation. Sometimes, closing up the bookstore at night was enough to send shivers down my spine, or when I woke up after a long night of drinking only to find that I had been the only one who went home that night, that Anna had found another place to bunk at.

I sighed, picking up all of my dirty clothes off the floor and throwing them in the hamper beside me. The room was a mess, as I spent a good deal of time in it; when it was Anna and her music filling the rest of the house- her many guitar-heavy metal bands that, when turned up to the extent she liked it, became rough and gritty on my sensitive ears- I could escape to my room to listen to something calming. I preferred anything classical, really, as it was comforting and reminded me of my family I left behind in Queens when I agreed to move in with Anna in her new apartment on the opposite end of the States.

The basket was soon full, and I stood up from the floor to begin putting other things back in place, such as my sketch books, novels, and cds that were tossed on the floor carelessly. I know I wouldn't have left my cds on the floor, so I was clueless as to how they got there. Shaking my head, I picked them up and placed them on top of my dresser, readable side up as not to scracth them.

Once my room was clean, I stepped out into the deserted living room; as ironic as this may sound, the room was completely and utterly lifeless. The couches were perfect, as I had taken to straightening them up with my Saturday off, today. The day I had nothing else to do but mope around the house, cleaning things that looked even the tiniest bit messy.

I cleaned when I was lonely.

In a way, I regretted fixing up the living room; if the room isn't even a little untidy, it looks unlived in and sterile. There wasn't much I could do about it now, though, as I had already made everything look perfect.

And not just the living room, rather than the entire house. The kitchen was spotless, and the bathroom (which somehow always got the dirtiest of all the rooms in the house) was sparkling. The floor was vacuumed to perfection, and the tv, lamps, tables, chairs, ceiling fans, and anything else that needed to be dusted had been.

Somehow, I still wasn't finished. Even after working late into the evening- it was eight thirty, and I had begun my cleaning at five- there were still things left to do... Weren't there? There had to be, as there were always things that needed to get done around the house.

Retracing in my mind what usually seemed to be left unfinished or undone in the house, I could think of only one thing: the grocery shopping. And yet, Anna and I had gone shopping just the day before. Could there really be nothing left for me to finish? Could everything be complete, could everything be done?

I took a seat on the couch with a huff. There must be something left to do, I thought bitterly, there has to be. I couldn't have done everything in four hours, cleaning the entire apartment in four hours... could I?

And then it hit me: the laundry.

Of course, even if neither of us had much to do, I could get it out of the way so that everything would be finished. The fresh laundry could be the cherry on top of a... clean evening.

I walked into Anna's room and snatched up her laundry basket, holding it firmly under my left arm. Then, I retrieved my own basket from my bedroom, and within minutes, I was on my way out the door. The laundry was held carefully under my arms as I tried as hard as I could not to drop either of them while I walked down the steps.

There was a room with laundry machines that our apartment complex offered, located on the lowest floor of the building. Since there wasn't an elevator to get to the basement, I had to walk down three flights of steps just to get to the machines. But it was worth it, because they only cost twenty-five cents to use instead of the seventy-five cent rate down at the laundry mat a few blocks away.

The fifty-cent saving was worth the extra lugging-around of the laundry. To me, anyways. To Anna, not so much. But that girl was always blowing her extra cash on every little thing, so it really wasn't surprising that she had driven out to Custom Cleaners just to get out of heaving the two baskets up three sets of stairs.

I let out a deep breath once reaching the basement. I could see the washing machine and dryer sitting side-by-side a few feet away, and I pulled the two baskets toward the white appliances.

Finally glancing up at the washing machine, I turned my focus to the coin slot located atop the apparatus. And, at first, things didn't click. Not even the sign covering the slots that read 'out of order' really jarred me until a few moments later, when I realized what that meant.

"Damnit!" I shrieked, pounding my fist down on the metal lid. "Stupid washing machine, stupid, stupid stupid..."

Yes. That small little memo that said 'out of order' meant that I would have to carry the two loads of laundry back up the steps, get in my car, and take them to Classic Cleaners.

And I would even have to pay that damned extra fifty cents.

By the time I reached Classic Cleaners, it was almost nine o'clock. I was tired, my arms and legs were worn out, and I felt like I was being punished for being one of those compulsive cleaners. Like it was a bad thing of me to have pushed myself to the extreme to get the entire house completely perfect.

My head rested on the steering wheel, letting myself just slump over in tiredness for a good five minutes before dragging myself out of the car with the laundry and haul it into Classic's. The automatic sliding doors greeted me with one loud, shrill squeak, but it didn't even phase me. All I wanted was to finish the task at hand and get home so I could get in my pajamas and go to bed.

I made a b-line toward the first washer I laid my eyes on, setting down the hampers before reaching into my pocket to dig out some change to slip in the machine.

"Hey, lady?" a bored voice called from the front desk. I could tell it was one of the employees. "You do know, we close in, like, five minutes."

My breathing came to an abrupt hault, catching in my throat and building up in my chest as anger and aggrivation.

"Can I please just have, like, a little while?" I asked desperately. "I need them washed."

"Well, I dunno, my boss is pretty strict about the whole 'store closing' policy thing..." He trailed off with hesitation thick in his voice.

The coins that were in my hand fell to the ground hopelessly. They clanged on the floor's hard tiles, a few taking time to spin on their axises before completely hitting the ground in one sharp clang. A chain of muttered obscenities surfaced before I could hold them back.

In a way, I felt bad for the store employee, having to deal with a seemingly crazy person. I hunched down into a chair and let a long sigh come out. I knew that even when I re-packed up the car with the hampers, drove home, and walked in the door of the apartment, Anna wouldn't be there. She'd probably stay out late, coming home at either midnight or a time later than that. And, on the occasion, she wouldn't come home at all, not until the next morning. She had a tendency to do that more often than coming home at midnight.

I could hear the man at the counted huff, obviously worn out by working on Saturday. And yet, he forced himself over the top of the counter and began walking toward me with loud steps. Or maybe they only seemed loud, as everything else was utterly silent. Anyways, he kept walking toward me until he was but a few feet away. I glanced up at him with eyes that were lonely and tired. His eyes looked the same way.

"Why do you need these clothes washed so bad?" he asked, glancing down at the two hampers.

I sighed, averting my gaze. "I don't know. I have nothing else to do, and if I don't fill up my time with something, then I'll be doing nothing. I don't like just aimlessly sitting around, do you?"

He laughed. "Yeah, kinda, but... Look, you seem pretty upset about this, so- as long as you don't tell my boss- you can stay here until you're done. Okay?"

Slowly, as it sunk in, a smile deepened on my face. I glanced back up at him, and then for the first time really took him in.

The boy was wearing black from head to toe: black, faded jeans, a black shirt that read 'Pantera' in a deep red, and black hair. He even had applied a bit of... what was that?... yes, definitely black eyeliner. He stood far taller that I did, and I was about the average height of a twenty-year old.

"Thank you so much," I told him, getting up from my seat to start the washer. I picked up three of the fallen quarters from the ground and plopped them in the slot. I then grabbed the hamper, and hoisted it up onto my chest.

But before I could hurl the clothes into the machine, the boy shouted, "Woah! You're not putting all of those in there together, are you?"

"Why not?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"Aw, hell. Look," he said, laughing while pointing to a few of the white clothes in the hamper, "these are all supposed to go in seperate washes. You need to seperate the whites from the lights, the lights from the delicates, and the delicates from the darks. Otherwise, the colors will all run from the clothes and stain your whites."

My eyes grew a little wider, though only for a second before replying, "I guess I've been living a lie."

He laughed a moment, then held out his hands. "Here," he suggested, and I handed him the hamper, cautiously. "I'll just show you an example of how you're supposed to do it."

I nodded wearily, not really wanting anyone to go through my laundry, but giving him a chance to show me how to do things right.

"Okay," he began, holding up a white sock and a white tank top, "these are the whites. Obviously. The wash you put the whites in is reserved for clothing with absolutely no color in them, whatsoever." He put the sock and shirt back into the hamper. "Next," he said, pulling out a faded yellow t-shirt and a gray sock, "You sort out the grays, the... well... pastels, and really light colors into the lights.

"The delicates," he continued, not grabbing anything out of the hamper this time, "are pretty much just things you wear that you don't want going in with anything else, clothes that, say, you might wear out to dinner someplace really nice, or to a party; you know, stuff you girls like doing."

He looked at me expectantly, and I nodded at him, prodding for the continuing of his explaination.

The man scratched the back of his neck, continuing with, "Also, delicates are for things that you, like... ugh... how do I put this so that you aren't offended? Things you would wear... like, under-"

I smiled, cutting in before he finished his sentence. "It's okay, I get it."

"-your clothes, like a bra or panties," he finished with a smile of his own.

This made me want to laugh, but I guessed that since he didn't, it wasn't as funny hearing it come out of his mouth as it really was. So I just stayed quiet.

He sighed. "Alright, finally, the darks. This is stuff like jeans, things that have dark colors... you get it, right?"

"Yeah, I get it. Sort of. My whole life I've been just throwing whatever into the washer, and no one has ever stopped me! I feel like... like..."

"'A sham,'" he finished for me. "I know the feeling." His arms crossed over his chest and he stared down at me. "But this is only laundry, it's really not that hard."

"Whatever you say," I mumbled to myself, and I wasn't sure if he could hear me or not. "Is that all?"

"Well..." he trailed off.

I ran my hand over my face. "There's more, isn't there." It came out sounding like more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah," he said, "but it's easy to remember, don't worry. Pretty much just don't put certain things together, mainly things like towels and stuff- things that have lots of lint in them- don't go with stuff that attracts lint. I usually don't have to worry about that kind of stuff when I'm doing my own laundry," he paused to scratch the side of his nose, "but if you have stuff like, oh, I don't know, say stuff like corduroy pants? Some people I know wear them, but I don't ever really have to worry about them... Anyways, if you have that kinda stuff, don't put it in with towels. It's just that simple."

I watched him as he explained to me something about what you put bleach in, and what you don't, but I didn't remember what. I figured I could just ask Anna when I got home, because all that was really in the baskets were some t-shirts and pairs of jeans. But I didn't want to offend this guy, cutting him off short. He seemed intelligent... well, about how to do laundry, anyway. He seemed nice, despite the blackness. Though that was easy to get over; who was I to judge, anyway.

"...So that's it," he decided finally, nodding while crossing his arms back over each other once again. "Now you pretty much know all you needed to know about laundry."

"I feel like I've had a revelation," I told him.

"You should, that was one hell of a speech I just gave." I smirked. "Maybe I should write a book."

"About how to do laundry?" I smiled, standing up while sifting through the laundry basket that was not in this man's tight grip. "I would buy it."

"Yeah, but you'd be the only one who'd need it," he smirked.

"Shut up," I muttered, taking out a few of Anna's black shirts and throwing them into the washer with a few pairs of jeans. "It's not my fault-"

"Yeah it is."

I scowled, digging through the hamper to find some clothes that would fit in with the dark wash. It was a narrow basket, so when I say I was digging, I mean I was really digging.

"Here," the man said, walking past me, opening three other washers that sat beside the one which I had opened. "Just sort, don't go looking for shit that belongs with the darks, because you'll just make it harder on yourself."

Watching me do as he was told for a few minutes, he walked off back toward the front desk. He hopped onto it from behind, twirled around so that he was facing the opposite direction, and made his way into the back room. I didn't know where he was going, but I figured he would be back. I mean, he seemed like he had nothing better to do, either, so helping me out was- in a way- like my CCD (compulsive cleaning disorder).

Yes, I'm fully aware that that is an oxymoron.

When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blob of black reappear, I turned my head to see what he was doing. In his hands were two cans, both looking like they were filled with beer. Faintly, I wondered how he had managed to sneak alcohol into the laundromat without his boss knowing, but the query slipped my mind by the time he returned.

He held one out to me. "Want one?"

"Sure," I took it with a smile, but set it directly down on the seat beside my still un-sorted laundry. "Thanks."

He didn't respond, but rather took a seat beside my hamper, the one that remained full. He opened his beer with a loud clack, leaning his head back slightly to take a swig.

I tried not to watch him, to concentrate on the laundry, but it was a little hard when he was watching me, too. Every now and then, I'd catch him staring at me out of the corner of my eye, but I shoved the thought to the back of my mind and fixed my eyes on the laundry, trying to remember the difference between whites, lights, delicates, and darks.

The man sitting down would correct me if I was about to put something a load that it wasn't supposed to be in, making fun of me, that I "couldn't sort laundry for shit". But his jokes were all in good nature, I wasn't offended.

Finally, after a long and grueling ten minutes, I had finished putting all of the clothes in the washer, and took a seat next to the man. I grabbed my beer and opened it, but I didn't drink it right at first. I just held it tentatively in my hands watching the machine cycle round and round.

After a few moments of silence, I took a sip of the beer. It was cold against my throat, rushing down it in thick rivers. "Ahh," my voice came from the back of my throat. "I haven't had a beer in a couple weeks."

The man next to me laughed, taking another drink of his. "So that's why it sounds like you're having an orgasm..."

I frowned, hitting him on the arm, realizing a bit too late that might have been too forward of me; I'd only known him for a short time, obviously not long enough for me to be hitting him, even if it was as a joke. Yeah, that was definitely too forward.

He didn't seem to mind, smirking before taking yet another sip of the alcohol-infused beverage. And then there was silence, which I wasn't quite sure how to fill. I didn't like silences, because I always was worried that I was making it awkward.

I sat there, trying to think of something to say, but could think of nothing. Wasn't there something I could say? Anything? Or was I really that boring? Maybe it was the laundromat that was boring. Maybe it was both, I wasn't anything special, and I had social problems; I didn't know how to talk to people I didn't know, it just came harder to me than it came to other people, like Anna. But the laundromat was pretty terrible, I must admit.

"So," I began, instantly wishing I could take it back: a pair of bright blue eyes turned down to look at me through a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

"Continue," he said. He took a drink.

I took a drink of my own, trying to buy me some time to think of something to ask him. Or something to say. Anything.

The drink didn't last long enough. I should have chugged it; that would have given me a while longer to make something up. So I had to ask the first thing that came off the top of my head. "Uh, what kind of detergent do you guys put in your washing machines?"

His gaze on mine was blank for a second. "I don't know."

"Really?"

"No. We use Cheer."

I smiled. "You know I've heard that Cheer is the most gentle on fabrics."

"Really?"

"No."

He smiled, turning away from me to stare at the washing machine while shaking his head a bit, almost as if to shake his thoughts. "I hate my job."

"Me, too," I agreed.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. After staring down at his beverage for a second, he took yet another sip. "Damn," he murmured, turning his eyes upward to watch the spin cycle go around. "I just wish I could fucking quit, or something. But I can't."

I slumped down in the hard plaster chair in which I sat. "Same here. If I quit, I'm out of a place to live."

After a moment, he glanced down at me. I looked back up at him, watching his eyes. Neither of us flinched or turned away; we were both being equally forward.

"What are you trying to say?"

"My friend, Anna," I sighed, glancing away from his intense stare only to return a moment later, "she gets weird about her money and if I don't pay her for my rent, I doubt she'd let it go. As good of friends as we are, she'd kick me out."

He stared at me a little longer, then turned away. "Oh, thought you meant something else."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Nothing," he replied. His voice snapped a little, and he took another sip of the beer. Drink after drink the man drank; I was surprised there was even alcohol left. Again, he watched the laundry being cleaned, taking his mind off of everything else it was cluttered with.

Actually, I didn't know it was cluttered, not at that time, anyway. But I could only guess by the foggy look in his seemingly crystalline eyes that his mind was troubled. For a moment, I pitied him. And then, my mind took over.

You hardly know him. You don't need to feel sorry. Whatever's on his mind can't be too bad, not anything truly worrisome. Tonight, when you get home, you'll forget all about it. You won't see this guy ever again, so it doesn't matter. At all.

But, in a way that wasn't exactly all that comprehensible, I did feel bad for him. He looked a little distressed, a little uneasy. The rest of his face was calm, emotionless, but his eyes were his biggest downfall. They were like gateways into his soul.

Ugh. And now you're talking about his soul. That is just perfect, Mel. Fan-freaking-tastic. Oh yeah, and you know that you're a freak, right? Well you are.

I held back a sigh, taking my last sip of beer. Briefly wondering how my beverage disappeared faster than the man's beside me, who was still gulping down the alcohol.

"You're a fast drinker," he muttered.

Shrugging, I said quietly, "I didn't realize I'd been drinking it so fast. Was I?"

"Yeah."

I raised my eyebrows, frowning- then, an instant later, they resumed their regular positions. "Guess I was completely oblivious to my alchie ways."

"Two revelations in one night," he said. "Shit, that's amazing."

"I'm just..." I trailed off, searching for the right word, "...flabbergasted."

And, at this, we both could smile.