Delicate
By Corrie Haldane
I stuff a damp dollar bill into the change machine. Quarters clatter in the return slot and I scoop them up with salt-stiff fingers. Money in hand, I approach the bank of washers. Their doors hang open like leering mouths.
My fingers tremble as I insert the coins. Mother has been gone for years, but it’s her voice I hear in my head, scolding me. Wash in the ocean, dry on the rocks.
But that’s what got me into this mess.
I study the dial and then turn the knob. I skip over Heavy Duty and Normal; this load is precious, irreplaceable. Delicate.
I pull a sleek, dark garment from my pack. It smells like seawater and copper pennies. I stuff it into the machine, toss in a scoop of laundry soap, and close the door. Then, I whisper a prayer, and press start.
Though I long to rest my tired legs, I ignore the row of chairs in front of the window and instead, stand guard before my machine, watching the hypnotic swirl as it runs through each cycle.
First, the wash, the soapsuds tinged pink with the blood of the man who stole my sealskin and kept me a landlocked prisoner until I managed to steal it back.
Next, the rinse, water now running clear, as though nothing ever happened. As though he never happened.
My skin thumps heavily during the spin cycle. The attendant, face buried in a book, glances over once. My heart beats as unsteadily as the machine, but she does not come over. Soon, the washer runs down, slowing and then coming to a stop.
I pull out the heavy, damp skin. It gleams.
Now for the dryer. I cross my fingers and hope it won’t shrink.
Corrie Haldane’s work has most recently appeared in The Quiet Ones 2025, Fraidy Cat Quarterly vol. 7, and Spectacular, Spectacular!: An Anthology of Circensian Horror. Corrie lives in Ontario, Canada. She finds inspiration in nature, baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online: www.corriehaldane.com.
Oh the anxiety of this but also the fear of doing anything else to clean it. Enjoyable tale!