The Laundrette
Desire Ep. 1
The machine had already started,
box opened.
small enough to be held,
large enough to hold
a start to letting satisfaction sit beside you.
you felt a slight sting down your left arm
as it opened.
till it reached your finger tips,
where your hands had just picked up the silk bag inside.
Not all bags felt this soft.
That’s what the order said.
There was something different from the way the clock was always fast by 6 seconds.
Something felt warm in your palm,
where you had already removed the oval object.
Light refusing a dance with the surface,
held off as if waiting for clouds to pass.
The room cooled in response.
Not all light could be contained.
Only some.
Warmth had spread up her arms.
An amber glow from two more buttons being pressed.
48% complete.
Logged.
Timestamp: 06-FEB-2026 23:07:22 (UTC)
Location: Laundromat, 121 New Street
Read the freshly printed receipt in her right hand.
The object did not announce itself.
It rested.
Weight without insistence.
Warmth without direction.
She expected a reaction —
a sharpening, maybe a pull, some immediate instruction from her own body.
Instead, there was only readiness.
The kind that arrives early and waits.
The kind that tightens you in the stomach
before it whispers in your ear.
The machine hummed.
again.
How did she miss it before?
It felt low,
even.
The request was stabilising,
pressure already configured on her wrist.
She turned the object once in her palm.
Light slid away from it again.
Not absorbed.
No reflection.
Silent.
Deferred.
“Fine,” she said, quietly —
not to the room,
but to the pause inside her.
She pressed another button.
Amber flared, then steadied.
The room adjusted before she did.
72% complete.
She felt it then — the familiar rise —
the moment she recognised from elsewhere, from other rooms, other nights.
The point where the body gathers itself
and expects the world to follow through.
It didn’t.
The warmth spread anyway.
Deeper this time.
More certain.
Her breath shortened.
Then slowed, against her will.
She laughed once — sharp, disbelieving —
and pressed again.
Nothing accelerated.
She was not refused.
It did not comply.
She knew it hadn’t before.
Anger arrived late, like a memory catching up.
Each time it moved closer.
Not loud.
Precise.
She wanted to outpace it.
To surprise it with urgency, with insistence, with need.
But each attempt met the same gentle correction —
a fraction withdrawn,
a second delayed,
a certainty displaced.
She stopped touching the buttons.
That was when she was understood.
Nothing in the room changed.
That was how she knew.
As recognition.
It was not denying her desire.
It was answering it —
too accurately.
It had learned the shape of her reaching.
The rhythm of her almosts.
The moment before she felt she was close.
Too close..
It moved just before assurance could settle.
The object felt cooler now.
Her hand did not.
The percentage did not change.
88% complete.
The receipt printed anyway, soft to touch.
She did not read it.
She stood there, body alert, mind clear,
desire still moving —
without anywhere to land.
The hum beneath the floor found her breath again,
this time without asking.
Not matching —
leading.
She noticed too late.
That was the problem.
She could leave.
The thought surfaced cleanly, politely,
like a form offered at a counter.
Like that receipt.
Her body didn’t wait for the answer.
Something tightened — not pain, not pleasure,
a readiness that arrived already decided.
A heat without direction.
Attention drawn sharp as a held note,
spoken soft as a line.
The room did not move.
That was how it pressed.
A pause settled in close to her,
where certainty usually did.
Not absence.
Suspension.
She stayed.
Not because she wanted more.
Not because she expected release.
Because the wanting no longer asked permission
to continue.
The hum eased, just slightly —
enough to be felt.
Enough to promise nothing.
The system did not advance.
The percentage held.
Her breath did too.
And in that heldness —
that almost —
she felt it:
Not satisfaction.
Not denial.
Alignment.
She remained there, alert, unfinished,
desire awake and nowhere to land —
and did not look away.
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If you’ve been hovering, this is a good moment to step in.
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Other prose and poems.
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If something moved in you — a silence that whispered — I’d love to hear it below, or in my DM’s.
All artwork courtesy of NDjin Gallery
This was not about the washing machine...was it 🤔
Mark, firstly, I stop before the oval object in her hand is more than just a physical item...it feels like a living metaphor for desire itself... present, warm, yet never fully yielding. The machine and buttons amplify this tension, reflecting how we attempt to control or accelerate our own experiences, only to be gently corrected by reality. I love how the percentage complete marks her progress in a way that mirrors human longing...always measurable, yet never truly complete. The interplay of light and warmth is stunning, symbolizing fleeting moments of clarity and emotional intensity that are both revealing and elusive. And finally, the lingering sense of unfinished alignment captures that exquisite edge between fulfillment and anticipation, making the reader dwell in the space of desire itself.