The old Laundromat across the street from my apartment had been a fixture in my life for two decades. It wasn’t just a place to wash clothes; it was a microcosm of humanity, where the quirks and dramas of everyday existence unfolded like scenes from a play. Each visit offered a slice of life: arguments with machines, appliance frustrations, hushed domestic disputes, political debates, tourists chatter, weirdoes bringing unusual items, students with glowing screens, and solitary figures lost in thought while folding laundry.

One Tuesday night in 2022, weeks before the Laundromat would close its doors forever, succumbing to years of neglect, I entered expecting the usual calm. The air inside was warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of detergent. But instead of finding the familiar emptiness, I encountered a young couple sorting their laundry into two brightly colored baskets. The boy stood austere and brooding, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, as though guarding himself from some unseen threat. Beside him, the girl radiated warmth, her smile infectious, lighting up the dimly lit room.

I offered a polite nod, which only she returned. Without lingering, I unpacked my clothes, loaded them into a machine, activated the cycle, and left to prepare dinner at home. My mind barely registered the encounter; it felt routine, unremarkable.

When I returned an hour later, the Laundromat was empty save for a single note resting beside one of the baskets: “To give away.” I guessed it was written by the girl, the handwriting was soft and rounded, much like her demeanor. I moved my damp clothes to the dryer and stepped out again, leaving behind the rhythmic clatter of tumbling fabric.

An hour passed before I came back to retrieve my dry clothes. This time, the girl sat alone on a wooden bench near the window. She looked up when I entered, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Ah, it’s you!” she exclaimed, as if we were old friends reunited.

“Yes,” I replied, caught off guard by her familiarity. “I saw you earlier.”

She introduced herself as Éloïse, explaining that this was her first time using the Laundromat. We fell into an easy conversation, discussing water temperatures, machine quirks, and the art of coaxing stubborn buttons to cooperate. Éloïse told me she was giving away clothes that no longer fit due to recent weight gain. She spoke straightforwardly, without self-pity, but there was vulnerability in her tone, a subtle crack in her cheerful armor.

Éloïse was beautiful, even radiant, despite her modesty. In her early twenties, or perhaps younger, she had golden blonde hair, big blue eyes that sparkled like sunlight on water, and a roundness to her features that made her appear approachable, comforting. She smiled often, her lips curving upward like happy cat basking in the sun. Yet beneath her laughter lingered a shadow, a quiet sadness that tugged at the edges of her words.

Her roommate, she confided, smoked marijuana constantly. While he seemed harmless enough, the smoke bothered her. She wondered aloud whether it might be wiser to find a new living arrangement. I nodded in agreement, suggesting that it could be a healthier option for her. "Smoke isn't good for your lungs", I pointed out, "and there's also the risk of secondhand exposure to the effects of the drug".

Curious about my life, she asked about my apartment building, marveling at its proximity to everything. Then, with a candor that both surprised and intrigued me, she lamented the perceived coldness of Montrealers compared to the warmth of her small northern hometown. “God is always with me,” she declared with conviction, clutching the hem of her sweater as though seeking reassurance, yet the hint of loneliness in her eyes betrayed a deeper truth.

Wanting to lift her spirits, I shared a lighthearted story, weaving humorous parallels between life in Montreal and life in a small northern town. I recounted my own adventures in the Amazon jungle, where I’d spent two unforgettable years navigating rivers and befriending locals. Éloïse listened intently, her laughter ringing out like music, filling the room with light.

“You’re a good man,” she said finally, her gaze steady and sincere. “So patient, so open, so easy to talk to.” Then, surprising me completely, she added hesitantly, “Are you married?” When I confirmed adding “with four children!” her expression shifted ever so slightly, though her smile remained intact. With a boldness that bordered on playful, she asked, “Can I call you sometimes? Can I have your phone number?”

Caught off guard, I hesitated briefly before agreeing… sure, I replied with a little indecision while she looked pleased at me as if I was a cornered mouse unable to fight. As we exchanged numbers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she saw me not as a stranger, but as a lifeline. There was a childlike innocence to her request, tinged with desperation. I felt a pang of sadness, wishing I could offer her more than just a listening ear.

As I prepared to leave, she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Could you let me hug you?” she asked, her eyes shimmering with longing. “I’ll be very happy.” For a moment, I froze, unsure how to respond. Her request was unexpected, intimate and yet undeniably genuine. Slowly, as I regained my composure, I smiled warmly and replied, “Of course, we can hug and be happy friends, if only for a moment.”

The embrace was long and warm, filled with an unspoken understanding. I felt a strange mix of emotions: happiness for the comfort I could provide, sadness for the weight she carried and guilt for the boundaries I knew I couldn’t cross.

Leaving the Laundromat, I glanced back through the window. Éloïse stood there, beaming at me with that frank, baby-like smile. Her joy was palpable, but it left me uneasy. I wanted to linger, to learn more about her, to help her navigate whatever storms raged within. But duty called me. I had dinner to serve, children waiting at home.

Her promised call never came. Days turned into weeks, and the weight of responsibility for my own family gradually overshadowed the memory of Éloïse. I never reached out to her either, though I often thought about doing so. Guilt gnawed at me quietly, a reminder of the fleeting connections we make and the ones we let slip away.

Today, the Laundromat is gone, replaced by a bustling hair salon. A new wave of eccentrics occupies the space, each with their own stories to tell. Occasionally, I think of Éloïse, wondering where life has taken her. I hope she found the strength to move forward, to find happiness beyond the confines of that tiny Laundromat. And I hope her smile still shines as brightly as it did that Tuesday night.