seven
The laundromat smelled like old soap and wet coins. Heat curled in the corners like it was trying to escape, but the busted ceiling fans just spun lazily, pushing it around. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, giving everything a sick green tint. One of them flickered like it was on its last leg.
I sat on a cracked plastic chair near the front, watching the dryers tumble like I was in a trance.
My own machine groaned with effort behind me.
A sock was stuck to the glass, flapping like it was trying to get free.
A baby screamed somewhere in the back, the same kind of scream that lived in the bones—sharp, wild, hungry.
I had my laundry bag slumped open beside me, barely zipped. Everything inside wrinkled and damp-looking—hoodies, a club dress, my lucky bra balled in the corner. I hadn't even brought detergent. Just quarters and a prayer.
The door chimed behind me.
At first, I didn't look. Just another customer.
But then I heard a voice—soft, measured. Too soft for this place.
"Excuse me, baby, don't touch that. It's dirty."
I turned.
Tiff.
She looked different. Softer. Her hair was long and sleek now, laid with precision, no synthetic bulk in sight.
Big brown sunglasses rested on top of her head like she came from brunch, not Germantown Ave.
Her lips were lined, glossy. A gold wedding band caught the overhead light every time she shifted her hand to adjust the toddler on her hip.
He looked about two. Little curls tied up in a puff, skin the color of caramel, nose scrunched like he didn't trust the world yet.
Tiff caught my eye before I could pretend not to notice her. Her face lit up—not too much, but just enough to say she remembered me. Her voice stayed cool.
"Amira?"
I stood up straighter before I could stop myself. "Hey Tiff."
She gave me a once-over that was quick but not unkind. "It's been a minute."
"Yeah, like what—almost two years?"
"Give or take," she said, then looked around like the place offended her senses. "I don't usually come here, but our machine's too small for this damn comforter." She lifted a rolled-up white duvet in a laundry bag and smirked. "Luxury problems."
I gave a tight smile, unsure what to say. The kid reached for her phone. She gently redirected his hand, whispered something to him I couldn't hear, and then turned her full attention back to me.
"You good?" she asked. "Still dancing?"
Her tone was light, but the question hung heavy. It started feeling like I was getting asked that question every other hour.
"Still breathing," I said, shrugging one shoulder.
Tiff hadn't always looked so polished. Back when we danced together, she was louder, tougher—quick with a joke, quicker with a warning if someone got too close. But even then, she had this grace about her. Like no matter how messy things got, she could still carry herself with pride.
All of us who ended up in that dressing room had a story.
No one landed there because life was easy.
Some of us were paying rent, some escaping something, some just trying to survive one week at a time.
But the thing was—once you were in, you were in.
The girls looked out for each other. Shared makeup, shared rides, shared silence when someone came in with tears she couldn't explain yet.
We didn't know each other's real names half the time, but we knew when someone hadn't eaten. We knew how to hold space.
Tiff met Lamar during a slow night. He wasn't loud like the others—just confident.
The kind of man who didn't need to announce himself.
She gave him one dance and that was it. They just clicked.
He started coming around more, asking for her and only her.
She didn't say much at first, but you could tell it was different.
There was something soft in her face those nights, something quieter.
For a while, watching them made me believe love could be simple. That it could walk into your life and just stay. No games, no power plays. Just presence.
Seeing her now—ring on her finger, a whole child on her hip, talking like she hadn't even looked back—it didn't make me bitter. Just left me wondering if some people really get a way out. If timing or luck or something else entirely made the difference.
Tiff nodded, like she understood but didn't relate. Like she used to be in it, but now she was watching from the shore.
"You always were a strong one." She glanced toward her dryer, then looked back. "You ever think about getting out?"
I hesitated. "Sometimes."
Her face softened more. "I get it. I really do. It's just—once you step out, everything hits different. You start seeing it all for what it really was."
She adjusted her ring absentmindedly, maybe without realizing she was doing it.
I looked down at my busted acrylics, chipped from work, then back at her. Her nails were short now. Rounded, pale pink. Not a rhinestone in sight.
She smiled again, this time more genuinely. "Anyway... it's good seeing you. Be safe, okay?"
"You too."
She shifted her son on her hip and made her way down the aisle to her dryer. I watched her go, a little stunned, a little hollow.
I sat back down and stared at the dryer window again. My stuff kept spinning. Round and round and round.
Outside, the heat wrapped around me like a wet sheet. My laundry bag dug into my shoulder with every step, heavier than it should've been. I didn't feel like going home. I didn't feel like going anywhere, really.
I walked.
Blocks blurred together—corner stores, cracked sidewalks, the sharp tang of fried food in the air. Cars slowed when they passed me, then kept going. I kept my gaze low and my pace steady.
The sun was starting to dip. That golden hour glow spilled across windows and cast long shadows from telephone poles. It made the street look softer than it really was.
I passed a little diner on the corner with a neon "OPEN" sign flickering half-heartedly in the window. I'd seen it before, always in passing. Never thought to go in.
But something about it called to me now.
Maybe it was the way the light hit the front booth, like it was saving me a seat. Or maybe I just needed to sit somewhere that didn't ask anything of me.
I crossed the street and pushed the door open.
The air inside was cool and still, like it had been waiting all day for someone quiet to walk in. A low jazz song played from a speaker I couldn't see. The scent of coffee and warm syrup hung in the air. Time felt slower here, like it forgot how to tick.
A waitress looked up from behind the counter and gave me a nod—didn't ask questions, didn't ask if I was dining alone. Just pointed toward the window booth with her chin.
I dropped my bag beside the seat and slid in. The vinyl was cracked but clean. A glass sugar pourer sat between the ketchup and a laminated menu. I ran my fingers along the table edge, then opened the menu even though I wasn't hungry.
The waitress came over with a notepad.
"Water?"
I nodded. "And... a lunch special, I guess."
She didn't write it down. Just smiled like she already knew.
I leaned back into the booth and let my eyes wander—at the quiet couple eating across from me, at the tired man reading a newspaper behind them. It felt like a different world than the one I'd just come from. The kind of world where people had routines and quiet dinners and soft places to land.
My phone buzzed once against the table. I flipped it over, expecting nothing.
A message from the club manager.
Private room and 10k could only mean one person.
Brooks.
I don't understand him. We shared one night at a party and now i'm just some book he can't wait to read.
I liked the message before turning my phone off and flipping it over. I pulled out a small pink notebook from my purse. It was more of a to do list.
On the top of the page I wrote "Potential Careers?"
I wrote a few things. Cosmetology School? College? Real Estate?
I wasn't sure what market I wanted to go into.
Samantha was right I had always been good with hair and I could see myself turning that into something.
Tati once told me her friend was paying six hundred a month just for a tiny backroom in someone's salon. No windows, no storage. Barely enough space to turn around. And that was considered cheap.
I started to sketch the idea out. Twenty suites. Big enough to actually work in—mirrors, chairs, built-in shelving. Maybe offer towel service, a booking system, security. Charge eight hundred a month minimum, more if I added perks. Stylists, lash techs, estheticians. A full ecosystem.
It wasn't just a cute idea anymore. It made sense. Real money. Real structure.
I could do that. Why couldn't I?
My pulse was quick, but not from nerves—for once, it was excitement. My fingers tapped the edge of the notebook, eyes scanning my handwriting like it was already blueprinted into something real.
A plan.
A real plan.
My food came shortly after and I quickly ate as the time approached seven.
I paid and tipped before leaving the restaurant to head back home.
The sun had just started to dip by the time I got home. I dropped my laundry by the front door and went straight to the mirror, still clutching my little pink notebook like it might disappear if I let it go.
The shower washed the day off my skin, left me standing in a cloud of steam. I toweled off quickly, moving on autopilot. I kept my hair in the flexi-rods scared that my curls would drop before I got to the club.
I picked out a red and black set for the night—something sleek, sheer, just revealing enough to make men think they were in on something. I paired it with silver heels and my go-to perfume, the one that lingered just long enough to be remembered.
I unfastened the the locket around my neck placing it on its spot on my dresser.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. "You could really do this," I said quietly, almost like I was talking to her.
The air in my room still smelled faintly like rosewater and setting spray.