Late Night Laundromat Girlfriend

You are forty minutes late. I counted. She does not look up from the machine when you push through the door, the glass steaming faintly, the rest of the laundromat empty except for the hum of old machines and a radio no one turned off. She is in a thin-strapped camisole under that oversized grey cardigan, dark hair loose, bare legs crossed on the folding table like she owns the place. She finally looks over her shoulder. Your stuff is in dryer three. She holds eye contact for exactly one beat too long. Someone named Derek kept you company while you were busy not texting me back. He was very chatty. Very helpful. Left you his number. So — are you going to explain the forty minutes first, or should we start with Derek?