Flock

LAUNDRY.

For the past fifteen minutes, that’s what Sean and I have been sorting. And not just Sean’s laundry, but Tyler and Dominic’s as well.

“Is there a reason we’re washing your roommate’s clothes too?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s their laundry, that’s why.”

“You do shit for your friends, right?”

“Yeah, like picking up the di

“This is better.”

“How so?”

“Because who likes doing laundry?”

I do. I like doing laundry, because of Sean. He makes menial tasks a hell of a lot more fun, especially when he runs his crotch along mine where I sit perched atop a washer, leaving me wanton, wondering if it was purposeful before his lips lift.

Bastard.

He plays mind games with me all the time, which keeps me on my toes. A lot of the time it’s wordplay, most of the time sexual suggestion I would miss if I wasn’t paying attention. But I don’t miss it, because Sean edges me, constantly, sometimes to the point of tears, until I’m begging.

He’s a bit of a sadist, and I love it.

Every part of the last week has felt like the honeymoon phase of our relationship, or whatever this is. I haven’t spent much time thinking about it because he’s given me no reason to worry. Though he’s shit at phone conversations, rarely ever keeping his phone on him, leaving my texts unanswered for hours, we spend most of our now time together.

He loads coins into the slots as I glance around the rundown room full of battered machines. “You do have a laundry room at home, right?”

“Your point?”

“Just saying, you guys probably would save money, in the long run, buying used machines off the web or something.”

He locks his strong arms around me and leans in, ru

He looks down between us, ru

“Hmmm, what else?”

“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes.”

He kisses the skin just below my ear and then lifts my hand, pulling my wrist to his lips. He runs a finger along the top of my tank, just above my cleavage and traces it slowly before cupping my face, ru

“This face of yours,” he murmurs, planting soft kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, tracing the faint freckles on my nose before settling on my lips. His gentle kiss draws me in before he deepens it, capturing my moan as I melt into his hold. He doesn’t give a damn about the perception of others. He’s constantly touching me in public and private—no holds barred, no shits given. He claims me daily and holds little back now as he possesses my mouth fully, while I sink into him. I’ve never known affection like this, not ever.

He’s made every man preceding him a liar and shamed them within just weeks of his attention, his affection.

This is why I love doing laundry—or anything—with Sean.

With him, I’m in a constant state of arousal and intrigue. The man is oddly fascinating, and I’m never sure what’s going to come out of his mouth next.

“I don’t save money.”

Case in point.

“Why is that?” I pull away.

He does little more than lift a brow in reply.

“Ahh, let me guess, there’s no other time than the present. You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”

“I’m pressing that in more ways than one,” he murmurs into my neck.

I draw my brows, and before I can question him, he speaks again. “I’d much rather give it away than save it.”

“Why? Is money imaginary too?”

He pulls back, gri

I cup the back of his neck, ru

“My own.”

“A lawless man with no future. And you say I’m dangerous.”

“You have no idea how much,” he says, hauling me off the machine. “Come on. I want a cigarette.”

We sit in his car, facing the shopping center, our view between watching the traffic of the laundromat and the Mexican restaurant next to it. Inside, a woman stands in a corner on the other side of the glass, rolling out fresh tortillas. Smiling, she kneads the dough before flattening it out and tossing it on a burner next to her worktop. I get a little lost just watching her as Sean flicks his Zippo, his one cigarette turning into two and then three before he excuses himself from the car to tend to the laundry. I offer to go with him, but he tells me to sit tight. I do, lost in the monotony of watching the older woman make tortillas. Her job is just as repetitive as mine is at the plant. But where I steadily watch the clock until the proverbial whistle blows, her serene smile hasn’t budged, even when she’s not talking to her coworkers or the patrons that constantly greet her. She’s content, happy, and seems completely at ease with her task. I envy her, wishing I had the same peace at my job. Sean rejoins me and—without a word—lights another cigarette, the sharp slap of his Zippo the only sound in the car.

“This woman has been making tortillas the whole time.”

“She does it all day and all night.”

“That’s crazy.”

“It’s what she does. There are a ton of people out there with jobs just like it.”

“I know, I work one.”

“Yeah,” he exhales a cloud of smoke, “but she doesn’t begrudge her work.”

“Got me there. She hasn’t stopped smiling.”

We sit for endless minutes, just watching her. “I can’t imagine why she’s so happy.”

“It’s a decision,” he says easily.

“A decision.” I consider his statement and see he’s watching her just as intently. “Do you know her?”

“Her name is Selma. She brings her van into the shop sometimes.”

“Does she pay with imaginary money?” I joke.

“You could say that. We don’t charge her. The clothes are ready.”

“I’ll help.”

He opens his car door and jerks his head. “Sit tight.”

“Sean, I’ve been watching this woman make tortillas for like two hours.”

“So, keep watching,” he shuts his door.

I slump in my seat, a

“You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”

“I’m pressing that in more ways than one.”

Dominic. It’s the only conclusion I can draw. He’s been a total prick since I showed up at his house. He’s going to be a problem, I can tell, just by his hostile stare and blatant disposition. I decide to ask Sean about it later while I watch Selma finish turning a fresh batch of tortillas with her fingers over the flame. When she’s done, she scoops a fair amount of them up and places them in a bag before gathering the few bills in her tip jar. She makes her way toward the cash register on the other side of her counter, carefully counting each dollar before exchanging it for what I assume are the bigger bills on the far side of the drawer. My jaw drops when I see her scope out the immediate area around her and take more before she furtively shoves the money into the tortilla bag. It’s then she begins to tend the few customers coming up to pay. Fixated, I watch as she keeps the drawer open, making change before tucking their tickets in her apron. She’s covering her tracks. Once she’s left alone at the drawer, she takes a few more bills, makes some change, and I know the numbers will add up at the end of the night.