OB Short: My Oren is washing my Clothes!

I glided down the hallway and slipped out into the street, following a low rumbling sound right into the neighborhood laundromat. The warm air smelled like fresh soap. I settled myself onto the edge of a laminate folding bench facing a row of giant front-load dryers. Inside one, a collection of colorful towels was tumbling in a slow, hypnotic circle, their brass zippers striking the drum with a soft, steady clack. Clack, whirl, clack. I gave a mild nod with each rotation, watching the bright vortex turn beneath the buzzing fluorescent tubes.