TALK TO FABRIC

Rose stared at the ceiling. The thumping and throwing of the dryer buzzed directly beside her. Metal threw around what was left of her clothes, not hoping to get the burnt smell out any time soon. She cared less about that as time went on. A quick stop. Something to forget her troubles, time to escape the consistent speech of the ever-boasting Emily and their loose lipped father that hadn’t broken their eyes from her since she was officially deemed a street sleeper. A laundromat felt like a seven-month vacation when compared to time with her blackhole of a family, those who attempted to rip her of everything good until she was nothing but one of them.

But to get over something, the universe sends you something worse. In this case, it was the man that wouldn’t shut up across from her. Or rather, what she thought it was a man. It was mostly men’s clothes, but perhaps that may have been a rude assumption.

She wasn’t sure if the man inside the clothes was invisible, but there was nothing there expect the structure of fabric ordered in a way a person would wear them. The more he dragged on, the more she heard the tick of the clock getting louder. She had never seen time pass so slow. He didn’t seem to care that she had laid down, stared off, or sighed occasionally. He talked as though he had never spoken before.

“And so, I said, Mr. Socks COULDN’T have started the revolt because they were in the dryer the day Mr. Hanger got snapped,” he said. “But my dear Ms. Hat didn’t believe me. It was a somber morning, but the divorce reminded me how valuable family is. I reconnect with my girl, Beanie, right away. She’s in college now. About to get her own logo patch too. I couldn’t be prouder.”

Something about the way he spoke made it seem like the only person he was trying to amuse was himself. Rose tilted her head and looked toward the man. The places where the clothes parted showed nothing but the trembling machines behind him, especially where his hat floated above his collar as though making room for a head he didn’t have. Even if he did take shape, there would be no explaining how a full-grown man had climbed from the tiny dryer in one piece after Rose had clicked another one to life.

“Speaking of logo patches, where did you say you were from again?”

“Ohio—”

“I like to say I’m from Russia, but I’ve truly been all over. Fabric-wise, the best parts of me come from Shanghai, or at least the labeling does. Wink wink. But I remember San Jose fondly, it’s where my heart was first sold,” he said and placed a sleeve to his shirt. “Ah! How could I be so rude, I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. Here, I’ve been talking your ear off for so long without so much as an introduction. My name is Mr. Shirt.”

“Riveting.”

Rose looked back at the ceiling. For some reason, there was silence loud enough to make her ears buzz. She held in it for a moment, enjoying the air as it slowly tensed before turning her head back to the man. He was tilted toward her, waiting.

“Rose.”

She could tell the man was happy, just by the way the shirt straightened as if sitting up.

“Rose,” he repeated. “What a lovely name… You know I met a girl named Rose once.”

And he was off once more.

Rose groaned, turned her head, and shut her eyes. She recalled the hour before, the hour in which she had nearly thrown her laundry basket right through the stranger’s chest. Perhaps his personality was a self-defense mechanism, and she had been bored into submission. It had been the same as the night that tiny elf appeared on her counter stove the night of the fire. Rose blamed Mr. Shirt just as much as she did that elf—if they would let her be normal, she would have more than the clothes drying beside her.

A buzz tore through the room. Rose threw her head up and turned to the dryer beside her, the green light beeping a rush through her limbs. She tore off the bench, yanked the basket from her feet, and flung the dryer door open, all while the man continued to talk behind her. She threw the clothes into the basket and placed them by the bench, cutting the man off.

“Mr… Shirt. It was pleasant speaking with you,” Rose said. “But I really must get going.”

It wasn’t a lie. The center closed soon, and she would be walking by foot.

“Ah!” the figure of clothes waved a sleeve. “No worries, dear. I was just waiting for my wife.”

“Your—”

“Why hello there!”

Rose jumped back and looked down at her clothes shuffling in the basket. Slowly, her long pink shirt, green top, and a half-burnt flower hairclip she must’ve saved from the ashes steadied into place. A bit taller than the man, as he finally stood, but this new figure had a much bolder posture to the way she sorted herself.

“Thank you so much for helping me out, darling. I would’ve smelt like ashes forever,” the lady hummed, stepping out of the basket. “Though I could’ve done with some heels. Even some flats would do. I do hate walking barefoot.”

She had no feet. The edges of her skirt hovered over the ground.

“No worries, darling. We will stop by the store on our way out,” the man said, holding out his elbow for the woman to wrap her arm into. Rose stared at them as they hummed together, walking toward the door and pushing it open. The second they stepped outside, clothes flew away in the wind and rain, scattering across the streets of Cleveland.

For a steady moment, Rose missed the sound of someone talking as the endless buzz of laundry machines harmonized around her. She didn’t even notice the tear of light, and the smell of flames bleeding out of the machine as she scooped what was left of her things and tore out into the streets.

Fyn Hughes is an active daydreamer from Louisiana. To them, fantasy is fonder than reality, but nothing is more inspiring than what is real. Follow them on Linkedin at Fyn Hughes.