Spin Cycle: A Romantic Christmas Story Page 2
Then she felt the strict confines of her size XS T-shirt cutting off her circulation and flared, “Well, still, that doesn’t give you the right to… to… spy on your patrons!”
He chuckled again; then she did, too.
She was being overdramatic, and they both knew it.
The black bra she’d been wearing underneath her new favorite white blouse was far less revealing than the bikinis most girls her age wore to spring break these days.
And she still had on her slick gray slacks.
“Well,” she said, inching away from the washing machine, which had now reached its “let’s vibrate Dana’s B-cups” cycle.
While inching away she knocked over her giant bag of shirts, and it spilled all over the floor, green and red and gold and powder blue shirts intended for Chad’s family cascading across the surprisingly clean white tile floors.
She’d been meaning to hand them out for days, but every time she got close to traipsing out to the trunk and hauling them under the Christmas tree, Chad or one of his insensitive relatives did something so blatantly rude, crude or socially unacceptable that she shook her head and refused.
Good thing, or she’d still have Laundromat boy staring chest-high all night.
“Here,” he said, leaping forward and bending down to her level. “Let me help.”
Together they shoved the shirts back in the holiday-themed mall sack, she more quickly than he.
He kept looking at them, that’s why he was so darn slow.
“This is… cute,” he said sarcastically, holding up a white turtleneck with a snowman made of bay leaves on front that said, “Tis the Seasoning” on it.
“Chad’s mom is a caterer,” she explained.
“I see,” he said, slipping it in the bag. “And Chad is your… husband?”
She snorted, standing back up now that the bag was mostly full again.
“Hardly,” she snapped, sounding more resentful than she’d intended.
He nodded again, leaning against the dryer across from her while she fiddled restlessly with the hem of her pants pocket.
She hadn’t smoked in three days, ever since they showed up in Snowflake fresh from the University of South Carolina campus.
And the red wine she’d spilled all over her dress was her first drink all day.
“Is that... store... still open next door?” she asked.
He shrugged and said, “24-hours a day, every day; just like the good, old Snowflake Suds and Duds.”
“Can you… watch this stuff?” she asked before bolting through the door without waiting for a reply.
There was a typical midnight slacker behind the counter, a tall kid with stringy red dreadlocks hanging from under a skip cap who barely looked up from his Cannabis Quarterly when the little cowbell over the door rang.
She found a dusty bottle of cheap red wine stashed behind a stack of pork and bean cans and headed up to the cash register.
There was a bowl of miniature candy canes next to the “have a penny, take a penny” jar and she put a handful, plus a 99-cent plastic corkscrew on the counter next to her wine.
The clerk finally looked up, a spray of straw-like orange hair on his sharp, pointy chin and said, “Merry Christmas!”
She’d forgotten, with all the hubbub at Chad’s house, why they’d come to Snowflake in the first place.
He had a kind voice and watery blue eyes; he looked like the kind of guy who sat in the back of class and read comics all through high school, who never bothered anyone or could hurt a fly.
Something tugged in her heart and she said, voice cracking, “Thank you!”
He looked uncomfortable at her wispy reply, standing transfixed until she said, “Can I have a pack of Wilshire Menthols, short?”
He seemed relieved to have something to do other than stand awkwardly in front of her, and quickly turned around with the familiar pack of light green on aqua smokes.
She wasn’t a big smoker, but in times of stress – you know, like spending your first Christmas alone in a strange town, in a strange Laundromat, in a stupid shirt – a few quick puffs put her right back at ease.
He looked at the array of items, started to say something, then thought twice about it.
As he rang up her purchases he admired her T-shirt and said, “Let me guess; you’re doing laundry next door, huh? Spilled something on your ‘real’ shirt, escaped a house full of crazy relatives to wash it at the Suds & Duds and won’t mind a cocktail or two while your shirt’s in the spin cycle?”
She smiled and said, “You’re in the wrong profession; you should set up shop as a psychic.”
He smiled, growing on her. “I keep telling Cliff the only thing missing from this shopping center is a psychic, but… he’s not as sympathetic to the supernatural as you or I.”
She nodded and said, “Cliff? Is he the guy working in the Laundromat?”
“Working in the Laundromat?” the kid snorted. “Dude owns it, and this store, and the sub shop; this whole shopping center. His Dad left it to him after he passed on a few years ago…”
His voice trailed off as he began bagging the candy canes and wine in an old-fashioned brown paper bag.
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a young guy,” she said, wishing she’d treated Cliff with a little more respect before just disappearing on him like that.
“Yeah, well, he’s used to it by now I suppose. Had to drop out of high school when his Dad got sick, been here ever since. Kind of sucks, too. Dude had a full ride to Duke, but… what are you gonna do? Family’s family, right?”
Dana blushed; she hadn’t even thought of going home to see her parents for Christmas this year, and had made some lame excuse about staying on campus the year before as well.
“Here,” he added, sliding across two plastic cups with a wink. “In case Cliff decides it’s not too early for a shift drink!”
She thanked him, turning and, just before leaving, calling over her shoulder, “Merry Christmas!”
She walked back to the Laundromat slowly, thinking just how wrong first impressions could be.
There was a new CD on now, and as she walked through the door to the Suds & Duds Dana realized that her DJ for the evening was none other than Cliff.
He looked up from reading the back of a CD case and smiled.
She asked, “IS there anything you can’t do?”
When he looked adorably puzzled she asked, “Well, I mean, you’re a landlord, Laundromat attendant, I assume interior decorator and DJ as well?”
He chuckled as she put the bag down, smiling as she brought out the contents.
“I have to warn you,” he said, mock-sternly, “this is a non-drinking, non-smoking establishment.”
When she gave him her best pouty-face, he smiled and said, “Unless it’s Christmas, that is, then pretty much anything goes. May I?”
She offered the cheap opener and watched as his longer fingers deftly opened the wine.
“2010,” he admired, dramatically blowing dust off the cheesy cabernet label. “A fabulous year.”
“The kid in the convenience store gave me two of these,” she said uncertainly, sliding one plastic cup out from the other and laying them both on the counter. “Would you… care to join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, already pouring them generous amounts before she’d finished asking the question.
He handed her hers, then pierced her with a sympathetic eye and touched her cup with his own.
It made a soft, wet “clicking” noise.
He said, “Merry Christmas.”
She realized he still didn’t know her name.
“Merry Christmas,” she said back with a wry smile, “Cliff.”
“Hey,” he said, pouting. “No fair. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“It’s Dana,” she said quickly, looking away if only to avoid getting caught up in his deep, green eyes.
There
was a bench just outside the front door and she inched toward it, waving the pack of smokes as a signal.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “I know it’s a terrible habit, but… desperate times call for desperate measures!”
“That bad?” he asked, creeping around from behind the sales counter.
She gave him a “don’t get me started” look and nodded.
He crept toward her, flicking a lighter from one of his side pockets and said, “Actually, I was going to ask you to bum one?”
“Don’t you own the convenience store?” she snorted, tapping out a cigarette and sliding it in his direction.
He nodded but said, “I don’t like to be… tempted… if you know what I mean?”
He waited until hers was in her mouth to light it, then lit his own once he was sure hers had started.
She nodded her thanks, inhaling deeply and sinking down onto the bench with a satisfied grunt as she stretched her long, athletic legs in front of her.
She followed the tart taste of the smoke with the dry, somewhat bitter taste of the $8.99 cabernet and smiled.
“That,” she said, finally meaning it, “is the best I’ve felt all day. Scratch that; all weekend.”
“Family?” he asked knowingly, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke in the opposite