On Sundays, Lydia does laundry. There’s a bag, oversized and heavy plastic, that rests in the bottom shelf of her bookcase. Emptying her hamper, item by item, into the bag, she twines the handle around between her fingers.
There’s a laundromat north of the house, and Lydia walks there, quickly. When it’s cold out she’ll tug her shapeless gray het closely around her ears and pull the fingers that hold the bag close into her coat, trying to let the scratchy fabric warm her fingers. It doesn’t work, but the pressure upon her skin at least gives the illusion that they aren’t out in the open air.
The laundromat sat nestled within the Y of a fork in the road, the cracking parking lot a peculiar triangular shape in order to fill the irregular space. Inside, it was garishly lit by flourescent lights, an old television high in one corner playing Jerry Springer. People sat in the orange plastic chairs connected together in the middle of the floor, glancing up when Lydia entered the room but never making eye contact. Some of them read magazines, some read textbooks, and several just looked at their hands. The only sound in the laundromat was the spinning and sloshing of the machines and the rustling of paper.
Lydia put all of her clothes into a machine, filling it maybe halfway. Unseperated, the clothes lay in a tangle of pink, white, gray, and blue. Lydia turned the water to cold, bought soap from the old dispenser hanging on the wall, and turned on the machine.
There was a chair immediately opposite her machine, where she could have watched the clothes spin through the glass front of the washer, but it was occupied on other side. Lydia bit her lip for a moment, before moving away from the orange pod of chairs. There were black plastic chairs, separate ones, up against one of the far walls. She looked at them, and at her machine, as if considering moving them together, but eventually just sat down in a chair, isolated from the other people and immediately next to a humming dryer.
Every now and again, a machine would finish with a piercing beep. Everyone would glance up, seeing which machine was finished, and one person would set down what they held and cross to the door of the washer or dryer. Transferring clothes to another machine or to a laundry bag, they’d sit back down or leave, and the room would relax back to its usual lethargic state.
Somebody took a cell phone call, standing up to go to one corner in an attempt to keep the conversation less bothersome – or maybe just more private. It was still clearly audible over the churn of the machines. “Hello? Shandice! How are you? And how is Jake, and Brian, and little Allison? Oh, marvelous! So, what’s up? What brings about this pleasant surprise?”
“Oh.”
“Oh, dear. Shandice, I’m – I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry. I mean – shit, but I’m sorry.”
“How – how did it happen?”
Most people pretending not to be listening. A couple truly weren’t, and a few didn’t even bother pretending but instead stared openly at the chatter.
“Oh, Shandice sweetheart, fuck, I am so so sorry. It’s tragic – but, but – the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Everything is going to be, it’s going to be all right.”
“Fuck. Don’t cry, Shandice, please don’t cry. Really, it’ll, it’ll be okay, time heals all wounds, just – oh, baby, it’s gonna be all right.”
“Shhh, shhhh.”
“Who’s with you? Is she there right now? Well, what the hell are you doing alone? Look, I’m coming over. No, no, I am. You need somebody there.”
“No, not at all. I’m just at the laundromat, nothing important – and you have a dryer, right? Oh, well, no matter. I can finish these any old time. Look, just hang on, okay? I’ll be over at your place in half an hour, tops. Stay there, okay?”
“I swear, Shandice, it really will be all right. Just be patient. They’ll have more news soon, and that will help – and eventually this right now will seem like a bad dream, just a nightmare that interrupted you from your real life. Come on, Shandice, don’t worry. I’ll be there soon, and Jake will come home, and we’ll all hold each other and cry through the night and you’ll feel better afterwards, honest. Just be patient, okay?”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“Half an hour. I’ll start getting ready now. Half an hour, Shandice, that’s all. I’m going to get off the phone now, because the sooner I leave the sooner I’ll be there – is that okay, Shandice? I’m going to leave now, but I’ll be there soon. All right? All right. It’ll be okay, Shandice, I promise.”
Slightly rattled-looking, the middle-aged woman wearing blue jeans and a yellow sweater got off the oldish cell phone and started pulling half-washed clothes out of the washing machine. A few people raised their eyebrows at the sight of the clothes, still sopping wet and coated with a thin film of soap. Most people looked away.
Unwringed, the clothes dripped steadily onto the floor. There was a small hole in the plastic bag that the woman put her clothes into, apparently, that grew larger until water was flowing through pretty steadily and the bag seemed in danger of falling apart.
Lydia stood up, and was halfway to the woman when she noticed that a young woman sitting closer to the yellow lady had already offered a second bag, one that looked more durable than Lydia’s own. The new girl, a big-lipped, big-eyed, big-nosed blonde wearing a green tracksuit, even seemed to have more than one bag so that giving one to the yellow lady didn’t inconvenience her to the point where the older woman would feel guilty in the least.
Worrying her lip, Lydia stood in the middle of the room. The woman already had two bags now, and this was her only bag, and it might seem like she was trying to imitate the girl’s act of kindness or even top it by giving away her only. Then, glancing quickly around the room, edged a little closer to the woman. She looked ridiculous enough standing in the middle of the room, it would be hard to be more shamed. She held out her hand with her offering.
The yllow lady glanced up from where she had been pulling the sleeve of a shirt back into the bag. She looked at Lydia, a question in her eyes.
“Two is better than one,” Lydia said softly, eyes downcast. Blushing, she realized the woman already had two bags. “And –“
”Thank you, dear, but I’ll be fine.”
Lydia nodded. Three is better than two, she finished in her head, and crossed to her seat and sat down. Carefully folding her bag, smoothing the creases down flat, she bent over and aligned it perfectly underneath her chair. She didn’t watch the woman leave.


Sunday afternoons, Lydia sat in her room The chinese take-out place was closed on Sundays, so she’d pick up a cold pre-packaged dinner at the local grocery store and lay it on her table until she felt like getting around to eating it.
She’d have a new stack of books, and often she’d work through a novel and a half just on that Sunday afternoon. Most Sundays, she’d prefer something a little quieter, more peaceful – old-fashioned romances, novels considered slightly trashy several hundred years ago, or modern stories of religious redemption. Sometimes, though, she couldn’t resist the pull of the adventures, of the action, of the lurid romances and outrageous fantasies. She had a weakness for Science Fiction that involved colonizing new planets. If the protagonists fell in love while navigating the difficulties of creating a whole new world, than all the better.
Sundays, Lydia could afford to be indulgent. She’d curl up and read in bed, having to turn on the overhead light in lieu of a lamp nearby. The glare was unbeautiful, but Lydia was curled up warm and safe beneath her covers, and things like the type of lighting didn’t really matter. Sundays, the family that lived downstairs was at church half the day and noisier than usual for the other half, but Lydia didn’t mind.
Sundays, Lydia would live somewhere other than where she was for as long as she could afford to leave. When she couldn’t any more, and had to come back down, she’d sigh and close the book and clamor out of bed, regaining her quiet grace as she walked to the window and sat on the sill, looking out on the street. There was never anything of great interest there, but still Lydia could look for minutes, even an hour just at the street and the occasional heedless car that passed.
She’d play solitaire with a raggedy old deck of cards, that had a joker with the two of spades scrawled on it and another with the queen of hearts, in replacement for cards lost long ago. Lydia couldn’t even remember whose deck it had been originally, just that it was hers now.
Some Sundays, and only on Sundays, Lydia would slowly and reverentially cross to the piano, sitting on the old bench and spending a while just looking. Then, carefully, watching the way the dust rose in little clouds, like dust storms on a tiny planet in a different kind of galaxy, she would life the cover of the keys and prop open the lid over the strings.
A few weeks ago, Lydia had checked out a book on pianos and music. She understood some of it, although she still didn’t understand how one read music. She did, however, learn the names of the notes. Although she read the book cover to cover, she never brought it over to the piano to try to figure out what exactly they were saying.
Although she was tempted once, it would be so... so...


On Sunday evening, when the sun set before Lydia was hungry enough for dinner, she realized just how soon it had been getting dark. It was only barely five, and the sun was setting – an unspectacular sunset, as the heavy clouds in the sky screened out the light and left the end of the day feeling just as drab as the beginning had. It was November now – another month of the sun setting earlier and earlier until finally the days started to lengthen again. Lydias brow furrowed, and she turned on the lamp on the floor and the overhead lamp and the bathroom light while she ate her chicken caesar salad. She would have to miss sunsets – that much was obvious. She was still walking home from work at four-thirty, and how soon was it that the sun finally stopped dying sooner and started living longer? Was it four forty-five? Earlier?
Lydia chewed on her food, soggy and stale, and frowned.


On Monday it was cold, but the sky was almost clear and there was no sign of rain. Lydia felt less worn out at work, as though the jump earlier was a smooth transition, like the sunsets moving through the seasons, rather than a disorienting quick change. While she organized plates of breakfast onto plain black trays, Lydia realized that she was working longer now – already, she had been doing more than nine hours a day, but now it was even more. Lydia didn’t like fusses, particularly when it came to money, but this seemed like something vaguely important.
Resolving to mention it to Greg the next time she had a moment, Lydia balanced a tray on each palm and raised her hands above her shoulders. The sausages were getting cold.

“Greg?”
“Yes, love?”
“Um. Well, it’s about my paycheck. I don’t know if - -well, I’m sure you noticed, obviously, that the factory workers have been coming in earlier because that one place changed the start time of their early shift...”
“Mm. Yes, Pilgrim’s. Sally told me something along those lines.”
“Um. Yes. Well, to help out, since it gets busier early around here, I’ve been coming in at 4:45 instead of 5:15.”
“Yes, yes, Sally told me that too. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, sir, I was wondering how that would affect my paycheck.”
“Oh, is that all? Silly girl. You’ll be paid for it, of course, for all that it’s only thirty minutes. You’re a good worker, we’d like to keep you around.” Greg flashed a grin, and Lydia got the disorienting sense that she was about to be patted on the head.
“Will it be overtime pay?”
“Excuse me?”
“Overtime pay? Will it be overtime pay?”
“Well, since we didn’t ask you to do it, and it’s only half an hour, honestly, I don’t think it matters that much... But you will be paid for it, mind.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s only half an hour, it ought to be overtime pay.”
“But, Lydia dear, we didn’t ASK for you to come in earlier. You volunteered.”
“I offered. If I hadn’t, you would have asked eventually – you need me here in the mornings, you know that.”
“But overtime pay, really...”
“Greg, when I first started working here you didn’t want to pay me overtime at all. I’m signed on to work 8 hours a day, though, and no more – and I don’t ever leave before four. Subtracting my breaks, that’s ten hours, at the very least. More, now. You didn’t want to pay me overtime for that, because I did that of my own choice, but you need me, you know it. And I work, I work hard all of that time, and if you didn’t want me to work you or one of the waitresses could send me home, but you don’t. And I deserved overtime for that, and I get overtime for it, and I deserve overtime for coming in early. You know that I’m worth the little extra that it is, I work hard, and I –“
”Alright, kiddo, alright. Gracious, but once you start talking you don’t stop, do you?”
“Um. So, will –“
”Yeah, fine. Overtime pay for the hardworking Lydia, coming right up. It’ll show up on your next paycheck – is that all right with you, Miss Lydia Greenwald, waitress extraordinaire?”
Cheeks burning, Lydia glanced down at her feet. “Yes sir.”

Lydia had scarf, gloves, coat, and hat on today, and pulled them all tight before walking out the back door of the diner. Her coffee breaks were long, but then her meal break was short, so everything evened out, really. The air was cold and brisk, and the sky blue – and though it was a bit chilly, Lydia was confident enough in her layers of insulation that she didn’t pull her arms in tight to the side of her body and draw her chin to her chest. Rather, she looked up and swung her arms in a manner that, though not quite jaunty, was a little bit cheerful.
The striped cover over the outside of the café was gone today, the good weather have shoved it back into the building. Idly, Lydia wondered why they even bothered pulling it out sometimes, since it certainly seemed as though she were the only one who ever sat outside.
It was smoky and warm inside the café, and although Lydias shoulders immediately relaxed at the feel of warm air against her face and worming through the fabric of her coat to warm her arms, she kept her face schooled as she walked to the counter.
Beside it, Todd was talking to the barista who sometimes took Lydia’s order, the dark-haired girl with the eyebrow piercing and easy smile. Todd had an arm slung round her shoulder, and was smiling and whispering in her ear. At the sight of Lydia and her guarded eyes, he took his arm off the girl’s shoulder and gently pushed her, as she giggled, towards the kitchen.
“Silly girl,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
‘What do you expect,’ Lydia almost snapped, but she bit it back. “The usual, please.”
“And what is that?” Todd asked, confusing Lydia by putting his elbows on the counter, so that his head was actually a little lower than Lydia’s, and grinning up at her.
“Um. A tall double-espresso mocha latte in a blue cup.”
“Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten.” Todd flashed that grin again, as he pushed up and turned towards the espresso machine.