Washing clothes

The laundromat where they used to wash their clothes every third Saturday marked the halfway point on his walk home from the train. Now the idea of washing clothes that infrequently seemed quaint, a sort of fairytale existence in which you sat in a cafe and ate delicious raspberry muffins with a sweet and delicate crumb on top, while fluffy white dogs, eminently well-behaved, passed you by without so much as a nod to your existence. Then after a couple hours of pleasant reading, you would people-watch while folding at the laundromat counter, conveniently mounted in a street-side window.

Now, pushing the stroller in front of him as he walked the long blocks home, he pined after those raspberry muffins and wondered to himself why it seemed like such a feat to simply cross the street, enter the bakery and buy a couple for breakfast the next morning. He noticed that the light was fading and picked up his pace. Maybe tomorrow.