And vending machines that dispense the four basic food groups: salty, sweet, soda, and chocolate. Warm, in that steamy, dryer-sheet-scented Laundromat way. Up on Union Avenue I duck into the empty Super Wash. Seems like yesterday it was autumn, but tonight winter waits impatiently for its turn. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my blue thermal, wishing IвЂ™d brought my hoodie. My breath comes out in filmy white puffs as I push my way out of the building into the November chill. IвЂ™ve only seen their shoes lined in a neat row outside their front door, and sometimes at night jangling Bollywood music seeps through the thin wall between us. A permanent, pungent cloud of curry and grease hangs in the hall courtesy of our right-side neighbors. The floorboards creak under my feet, too, as I let myself out. I canвЂ™t sleep when she brings men home, so I pull on my dirty jeans and cram my feet into untied sneakers. MomвЂ™s giggle is husky as she pirouettes out of his grasp and leads him into her bedroom. Willing myself invisible, I press myself against the cushions of the couch, but when his hands reach for her waist, I realize I already am. His features are lost in the darkness, but his shape is bulky and tall, and he adds the sharp scent of leather jacket to the room. Tonight she is not alone, and the shushing sound she makes as she closes the door is loud enough to wake me, if I wasnвЂ™t already awake. The muffled creak of the floorboards beneath the shabby carpet gives her away, along with the stale-beer-and-cigarette smell that always follows her home from the Old Dutch. Yellow light slashes the darkness as Mom sneaks into the apartment again.

Sax and dotty music but no words