House keeping wasn't really George's thing.House keeping wasn't really George's thing. Hell, nobody ever came over to see him anyway, so why keep the place neat? He pulled the grey slacks over his naked rump, no clean shorts. Slid his sockless feet into his leather jogging shoes. Pulled his only clean tee shirt (the one with Mickey Mouse holding up one hand, purchased at the flea market, and one size too big for him) over his shoulders and head, George filled his pockets with change, a comb, car keys, wallet, and reaching into the drawer, added a pack of rubbers, just in case, to his shirt pocket. George was on his fifth pack of rubbers, had never used any, but wore out the packages carrying them around, until the contents became gummy in the Miami heat. George glanced at his watch as he pulled into the lot by the washermat, calculating time. A half hour if he used three washers to clean his clothes, another half hour to forty five minutes to dry. It would be after two a.m. when he finished. George fed dollar bills into the changer, quarters into the soap machine, and quarters into the washers, stuffing his clothes into the three white machines carelessly. "You really ought to wash the white's in one machine and the dark's in another." George looked. A tousled haired, undersized, gamin. Blonde curls spraying from her head, tight Gloria Vanderbuilt jeans and a lumber jack plaid shirt smiling with her mouth but eyes frowning, standing with one hand casually on her hip, was inspecting the contents of his washers. |