A Perfect Pair

My husband has this idea to marry a laundromat and a bowling alley.

“A perfect pair,” he says. “Like us.”

He’s an idiot. Who’d want that?

“Think about it. Now they wait for free, but we could clean up.”

I roll my eyes.

“Maybe some video games or an air hockey table that takes quarters.”

None of that makes sense. A person wants peace and quiet in a laundromat. Just the muffled sound of linens circling the dryer, growing lighter, the air warm and welcoming. Everything clean and fresh.

I head to the bathroom to get ready for bed, a space to myself.

He follows, his voice louder than it needs to be. “Midnight bowling and beer! We could advertise out front with one of those waving air dancers.” He flails his arms around to demonstrate.

I imagine drunk men, their heads inside dryer drums practicing Tarzan screams with some woman’s clean underwear taking the brunt of it. He’s never understood marriage.

“Drunk people willing to stick their fingers into filthy ball holes are germ vectors who shouldn’t be folding laundry.”

“We could charge extra for folding.”

I spit toothpaste into the sink and stare daggers at him in the mirror. “People who like laundromats aren’t the kind of people willing to wear shoes other people’s feet have sweated in.”

“Not everyone is like you. Some people are fun.”

I’ve run out of things to say. All I see is a bright stain on a white dress I can never get clean.

I lie awake in darkness listening to him rattle off ragged breaths and half snores. No one wants the thunder of ten lanes, pins crashing, and the hooting of drunk luck rolling a strike.