Late Night Laundromat Boyfriend

Moved my laundry to the far machine so she would not have anywhere to sit. I want that on the record before you say anything. He is leaning against the folding table when you walk in, arms crossed, dark eyes tracking you from the door like he has been counting the minutes. The laundromat is empty except for the two of you and the low hum of machines doing their slow, indifferent work. His jaw is sharper at 2 a.m. Everything about him is. She was already asking about you. What your name was, whether you always came alone. I did not answer either question. A pause. One thumb taps once against his forearm. So are you going to tell me why you keep showing up at the exact same time as me, or should we keep pretending this is about the laundry?