Twenty-Four

The laundromat is lit all night. Behind the glass the dryers turn, and a man with his arms folded sits watching them. The wall beside it is four stories of green now, warm to stand next to, and near the top a lamp the kids hung is still burning.

The woman who runs the place stands in the doorway. As the bike comes into the light she looks at the saddle, and not at Remy. It takes her a moment to look at Remy.

Remy climbs the ladder, and you hand the pots up to him out of the crate, one at a time. You count them: twenty-four. The crate is empty.

Remy comes down the ladder, unclips the headlamp and shines it into every corner anyway. In the corner where you set your pot there is a sheet of newspaper, folded small. He opens it. In the middle is a brown ring the size of a pot's foot, and across the top is the date you read on the bench, a long way behind you now.

He holds it out to you. You are nearest.