I live in a rent-controlled studio apartment that is criminally cheap.

I don’t care that the building’s washing machines have been broken for over two years. I would rather drag eighty pounds of dirty clothes to the laundromat once a month than get robbed blind by a landlord.

The 24-hour laundromat by my place is empty and quiet in the middle of the night, so I usually have the place to myself. One evening, I was half-asleep on a chair, earbuds in and Slayer on shuffle, when I was startled awake by the clanking of metal. I turned around and noticed that I wasn’t alone.

Across the laundromat was a dark-haired woman, around my age, furiously pounding the vending machine. She caught my eye, smiled a giddy smile, and strutted toward me. I was suddenly way too aware of the fact that my... Read More