The laundromat sits at the undercorner of an overpass, an intersection of busy roads and amongst the dead remains of abandoned factories and fast food chains. You go there every couple of nights. Usually you’re alone, but sometimes you’re not.
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Elderly Louis is in tonight. She says the devil is here. That the devil has ears on his hands so when he draws you in closer, he can listen to the darkest whispers of your heart. You ask her if you can use some of her detergent. She only lets you after you show her your palms.