From outside, Enya hears the sound of the whirling dryer. With her basket firmly placed under her left arm, she opens the door with her right. She moves toward a vacant washer and stops abruptly.
Abe Waller is standing near the dryer, his empty basket on a plain brown wooden chair under a small unframed mirror. This is a utilitarian room with just the basics: two washers, one dryer, and a sorting table. The room is steamy and too warm. There is no air-conditioning in here. But one small louvered window, half-open, lets in a small breeze.
She is taken aback to see him, immediately uncomfortable. She hopes her new neighbor doesn’t feel he has to speak to her. For a moment she is motionless, but poised to flee. Enya’s eyes glance downward, to avoid looking directly at this large, overwhelming man. He is new to the building and won’t know she does not make small talk to any-one, let alone strangers. She starts to leave, saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the room was occupied.”
Abe wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “No, please. I am moments away from completion. Do not let me disturb you. The machine is yours to use.”
She returns, opens the door of the empty washer, her back to him so he will not see her personal garments.
He, too, turns away, toward the small mirror. He takes off his Coke-bottle glasses and wipes the steam from them. Enya looks up and sees him reflected in the mirror. Then, not wanting to embarrass him, she quickly looks downward again.
The dryer comes to a halt. The room grows silent. As Abe removes his dry laundry, he attempts small conversation. “It was very kind of the people to allow me to use their place.”
She pours soap powder in, and chooses the wash she wants, then places the quarters into their slots and turns the machine on. As she upends her garments into the machine, she says, “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Duma are nice people. Very quiet.”
“I promise to be quiet also.”
She looks up at that, discomfited. “I did not mean—” She breaks off.
“I am not offended.” He finishes removing his dry clothes and places them on the table and starts folding with great precision. “Forgive me for my forwardness, but your accent... May I ask where you are from?”
“So many years in this country, I don’t lose it. I am from Prague originally. And you?”
“From Munich.” He pauses. “That was a long time ago.”
They are silent for a few moments, absorbing this information. She places her empty basket onto the bench. She tries to hide how tense she is, even though he seems a gentleman.
Abe finishes folding. He lifts his basket and moves toward the door.
As he passes her, he looks down at the numbers on her left arm. She immediately gasps, trying to hide them with her hand. She is not used to people staring at them, but then her eyes are drawn to just below the wrist of his long-sleeved shirt. He, too, has the damnable numbers.
Their eyes meet for the first time. Hers, watery and weak. His covered with strong glasses. He says very softly. “We are members of a very exclusive club, jaf.”
Her head barely nods.
He opens the door and bows. “Good day, Frau Slovak.”