Open All Night

There is a laundromat two blocks from my building that has never closed, not once, in the six years I've lived here. Not on Christmas. Not during the blackout. The fluorescent sign out front says OPEN ALL NIGHT, and it means it the way a promise means it — not as advertising, but as a warning. I do my laundry at 2 a.m. because at 2 a.m. the place is mine. Me, the hum of the machines, and the attendant I have never once seen — though the night-slot always slides my exact change through, bills to quarters, without a hand ever touching mine. Dryer number seven is the one you notice. Every machine in that place has a little window, round as a porthole. All of them are dark at 2 a.m. — except number seven. Number seven is always tumbling. Always. Empty or not, it turns, and its porthole glows a soft, almost golden amber, like a lantern behind glass. The first month, I assumed it was stuck. Some dryers jam; you call the attendant; nobody comes. Fine. But one night I got curious — which is always where these stories go wrong — and I opened it. Inside: a single wool sweater. Gray. Folded. Warm, as if just finished. And folded the way someone folds with love, not the way you fold because you're in a hurry — sleeve tucked exactly under, cuffs squared. I touched it. It was faintly damp at the collar, like it had been worn by someone who had just come in from the rain. There was no rain that night. I checked when I left. The next week, I opened number seven again. The sweater was there. Still folded. Still warm. The week after: two sweaters now, stacked, both warm. Both folded with love. I stopped opening it after that. You learn. But here's what I can't stop noticing: the tumbling never stops, the glow never dims, and my laundry is never quite clean when I take it home. My clothes come out warm, always a little too warm, and they smell — faintly, underneath the detergent — like wool. Like someone else's wool. Last Tuesday, I dropped a sock. One white sock, mine, fell behind dryer number seven. I reached for it. My sock was gone. In its place, folded neat as a handkerchief, was a second sock I had never owned. Warm. Faintly damp at the toe, like someone had just been walking home. I keep it in my drawer now, that sock. I don't wear it. I don't throw it away. So if you know a place that's open all night — a diner, a laundromat, a gas station — tell me: who do you think it's open for? Because I'm starting to believe number seven isn't drying clothes. I'm starting to believe it's keeping somebody warm. Sleep tight. And check behind your machines tonight. This story is: FICTION.