Korean Dry-Cleaning Lady





It's out of my way.  I cross the street just to pass in front of your shop so I

can catch a glimpse of you.  I've often wondered how much my life expectancy has

gone down, crossing that busy street all those extra times: twice on my way to

the subway, and then again coming home.  I mean, the law of averages has to catch

up with me sometime.  So many pedestrians are hit for every so many thousand

crossings, like clockwork.  The odds are inexorable, and eventually they will

grind us all to dust.  I could probably work it out exactly with a little

research.  I'm good with numbers.



Sometimes you're not even there.  The big picture window is empty.  You must be

in the back then, I suppose.  Lately, I've started to slow down when that

happens, to wait until you reappear again.  I try not to be obvious about it.

Usually, I set my briefcase down on the sidewalk, take a sip of coffee, act like

I'm waiting for something.  Once, I pretended to straighten my tie using the

reflection from your window.  I was peering into the depths of your shop, between

the tiers of hanging clothes, when you emerged from the back, your husband right

behind you.



I can't even remember exactly when I started doing this.  I used to go to another

place for my dry-cleaning, one that had been recommended.  It was a little more

upscale.  But the third time they lost some of my things, that was the end of it.

 I had to look in the yellow pages for a dry-cleaner and was surprised find that

there was one on my way to work.  Even though I walked that block twice a day, I

never noticed your place.



Your line in the yellow pages is almost as invisible as your little storefront. I

just happened to recognize your address as the street where I catch the subway. 

'Dry-Cleaners': that's the name of your store.  Not very original, but your place

is no frills, no nonsense.



I remember when I walked in.  You were away from the counter, and the little area

at the front was empty.  I looked around, noticing the dingy wood paneling, the

worn plastic countertop, and I thought about leaving.  The Korean Airlines

calendar, the one they must give out for free, was torn, and two years out of

date.  Maybe the picture has some sentimental value.



What I didn't see then were the little things I came to notice later: the tiny

vase beside the register that always has a fresh flower in it; the plastic cup,

with the pencils so neatly arranged inside.  Your store may be shabby, but it's

always tidy.  Still, I didn't notice any of that at first.  All I saw was the

dinginess, and I was wary about entrusting my clothes to you, after my bad

experience at that other place.



You heard the little bell on the door and immediately came bustling up from the

back.  It would be a lie to say I noticed you right away.  I gave you the same

wary scrutiny as your shop.  I remember trying to guess your age, deciding that

you are a probably a year or two older than me.  But then again, it's hard to

tell: your life has probably been so much harder than mine.  You looked tired

that day too, but you smiled.  I gave you my things and left.  Two days later I

picked them up without a second thought.



I was relieved to find everything OK with the cleaning.  I'm not really that

picky about my clothes.  Only the gross incompetence of that other place finally

drove me away.  The next time I came in, I was much more favorably disposed. You

were helping another customer, so I had time to watch you.



Your body is slender and compact, with some of the feminine softness worn way by

hard work.  Your smile is radiant, and your manner always graceful, even when you

were lifting heavy loads of laundry.  You smiled at me that day and wiped your

forehead with the back of your hand.  We spoke briefly about the weather as I

handed you my things.  I didn't really give you another thought until I caught my

train.  Then your image came back to me and stayed as I sat staring at my

newspaper, unseeing.  Some time after that I found myself crossing the street for

no reason in particular and walking past your shop.



I don't want to sound like a creep, but this has been going on for some time now.

 In the winter, I see you sipping a cup of coffee, staring at the snow falling

outside.  Sometimes you're reading the paper.  Your sweater seems too thin on

your slender arms, and I wonder if you are cold.  When the weather turns warm,

you start to wear blouses and I notice how white your skin is.  You probably

never get out of the shop.



Once, when you were getting my things, you turned away and I could see the bra

strap crossing your back beneath your shirt.  I imagined the little marks it

would leave when you took it off that night.  You would try to rub them, but of

course, you couldn't quite reach.  Your husband wouldn't notice.  He's not a bad

guy, I imagine, but he's just as hot and tired at the end of the day.  He's

probably sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his socks off.  When it gets

this hot, I imagine you floating in a cool tub of water.



I came in with a shirt missing a button once.  In a drawer, you found one that

matched perfectly and sewed it on while I waited.  I remember the way your brow

furrowed as you threaded the needle, and how you held your elbows close to your

body as you sewed the button back on with a few deft motions.  It would have

taken me half an hour to do that, but you didn't charge me.



You are at an age when all you probably see in the mirror are signs that you

aren't young anymore.  I imagine you notice the first few lines at the corners of

your eyes, maybe a one or two near the mouth when you smile.  You don't have

time, and maybe not the money, to pamper yourself, but I know you care about it.

You always dress neatly.  Your taste is simple, but you always wear some makeup.

Sometimes I think you've got too much lipstick on, but I suppose what you're

doing works: I find myself thinking about how full and sensual your lips are.



I worry about you sometimes.  How many little stores like yours get held up in

this city every year, I wonder?  I'm sure I could calculate the odds.  It would

be even easier than figuring out when I'm going to get run over.  Our

neighborhood is becoming gentrified, and I worry about your business too.  The

rent has to be going up.  I don't imagine you and your husband own the building.

That other place, the one I used to go to, seems to be doing well.  I tell

everyone I know that you guys do a better job, but I don't think any of my

friends have switched.  Yuppies feel less threatened in a more upscale

environment.  I'm sure Starbucks has its eye on your little storefront.



I don't think you know my name.  You ask it again every time I come in.  I am not

fooling myself into thinking we are anything but strangers to each other. Still,

I think about you quite often.  Many times, the thought of stealing that quick

glance through your window on my way home is the only thing that gets me through

a long day.



There is no way to say what I want to say without coming across as, at best, a

creep.  You can only trust my word that I don't mean it in that way.  It has

gotten to the point where I feel I must do something about the way I feel.



***



I'm on my way home. It's late, closer to eight o'clock than my usual six.  It is

already growing dark and the traffic has thinned out.  From across the street I

see you through the window, bending over the register.  As I cross the street, I

can see that you are putting things away under the counter.  I quicken my pace,

arriving at the door just as you do.



Through the half open door, you tell me I'm too late.  You've just locked up the

register.  You're very sorry, but could I come back tomorrow?



The moment is horrible, awkward.  I want to run away.  I have to make you let me

stay, but that means improbably bridging the gulf between us.  Things like this

really do happen, I imagine, but not to me.  I tell you that I don't have any

cleaning to pick up.  You raise your eyebrows.  You look startled but also a

little amused.  It's not the wary suspicion I expected and I grow a little

bolder.



I tell you that I just wanted to say hello, and you surprise me again by laughing

as you open the door.  I'm not sure what I expected - to be thrown out on my ear

most probably.  Everything after that awful moment of breaking the ice was just a

fool's hope anyway.  The little bell jingles as the door closes behind us.



I find out you remember my name.  You even know a few things about me.  I'm not

always careful to clean out my pockets, it turns out.  You always check, you have

to, and you put everything back.  Still, you say, when you do people's clothes,

you get to learn things about them, things they would never suspect.



I love hearing your voice. Your thick accent gives the words a singsong quality

that is mesmerizing me.  You're the midst of a story about something left in a

pocket one time, but I'm not listening.  I've never seen your eyes sparkle this

way before.



And then you are telling me that you know I live alone.  I interrupt, and ask

your name.  It has two long vowels, and it rolls off your tongue like music.



The room seems to close in around us.  I wonder how long I've been in there.  It

seems like forever.  You're telling me that your husband is away, you mean he's

gone home for the night already.  He's going to some card game.  You're

explaining the rules of the game to me as we edge sideways between the hanging

clothes, but your voice is muffled.  I cannot understand what you're talking

about.



Your lips are soft full against mine.  After that, there isn't any more talking -

sounds, but no more words.  My arms are around you and yours around me.  Your

body feels firm and smooth when I run my hands up and down your back.



You are a little shy, maybe embarrassed and surprised at how eagerly I am

touching you.  You haven't been the object of such ardor in a long time.  It

makes you tremble.  But I can feel when you finally accept it.  Your head becomes

heavier resting on my shoulder.



I realize that you have probably been on your feet all day long.  How rude of me

to keep you standing.  There is a pile of something soft, laundry I suppose, and

I gently guide you down onto it.  I slip your shoes off and massage your feet.

You protest slightly at first, as if you don't deserve it.



Your breasts are soft, and they fit my hands perfectly.  I pull your blouse out

from your skirt and begin to undo the buttons from the bottom.  You start at the

top and we meet halfway.  Our fingers intertwine and you hold my hand for a

minute before you let me take your shirt off.



Your body feels smooth under my tongue.  I linger here and there, but my goal

still lies hidden under your skirt.  You remove it by yourself, but you let me do

the panties.  Now I'm looking up at your face, framed between your thighs.



When I'm finished, you help me out of my clothes, folding everything neatly and

setting it in a little pile.  I feel guilty.  I just threw your things off to the

side.  Your passion surprises me.  After the methodical way you handled my

clothes, I wasn't sure.  But all of a sudden, your lips and tongue are

everywhere.  When I can stand it no longer, I pull your face to mine and kiss you

deeply.



Then I'm on top of you.  The soft pile of clothing is folding around us.  I'm

surprised by how much you want it, the way you grasp me so tightly, pulling me

in.  I want to pause for a moment, to savor the feeling of being inside you, but

you are urgent.  Your body is straining against me.  I've got my hands under you

and I'm pulling myself in as hard as I can, losing myself in your soft, firm

grip.



The release is draining.  I feel your body shuddering under me.  You squeeze me

more tightly, wringing out everything I have left.  We both breathe in ragged

gasps, our chests heaving and pressing together for a long time afterwards.



Gradually I become aware again.  In the distance, a car honks its horn.  I feel

the subway rumble by below us.  A faucet is dripping nearby.



We dress in silence.  You smooth your skirt and hair before leading me back

through the hanging clothes to the front of the darkened store.



The night air feels cool on my skin as you open the door for me.  There is a hint

of fall in it.



I've been thinking about this for a long time.  I was up half the night, writing.

 Please don't think badly of me: this is the only thing I could think of to do.



When I've finished, I'll slip it into my jacket pocket, the one I'm taking to be

cleaned.  I'll be back in two days to pick it up, probably just before eight

o'clock.