So rare a day that it’s nice enough to breathe in a full breath in a non-polluted zone, much less is as good as any to hang your laundry out to dry.
Enjin always complains about the loud thumping your machine makes (“fits two shirts, pair of pants, and half a sock and it still spins like I’m tryna kill it,” he always whines, but you know it’s just because he never bothers to unball his clothing before throwing them in the dryer.
to which you always reply, “half a sock, or half a pair?”), but he’s the one who set it up all those months ago and swore he’s didn’t need one lick of help.
It’s a waste of energy, makes the apartment too hot (Enjin’s words, again), and it truly is a marvelous day when it feels like everyone on the ground is out in the open streets, soaking up the fresh air and bright sunshine, eating hot and oily food, and using most energy sources to distribute ice for cold drinks.
You’re busy hanging up clothes on the makeshift line up above the cleaner’s headquarters—waiting on an Enjin who swore he’d be free to come by and “hang,” he’d ambitiously said at 7:30 in the morning as he walked out the door.
Behind you, finally, the door unlatches, and Enjin (hair pushed back with sunglasses, stripped of his large coat for once, in his boxers--red to match the tattoos, you know--and undershirt out) struts out with some sort of folded chair in one hand and at least three iced bubbly (probably alcoholic) cans of something-or-anothers in the other. He grins that marvelous grin of his when he sees you and tries to waves.
“Look what Rudo found—“ he calls out in that off-beat, excited way of his, bending down when he reaches you to put down the drinks without tipping any over. “May I present to you, a lawn chair!”
He makes a stupid noise and does a dance of trying to open the thing, eventually succeeding and presenting you with a chair that.. leans about two feet back.
“Oh my god,” you laugh, as he excitedly nods and starts spreading a towel over the rusting seat, exposing the freckles on his neck that start dipping under his darkly-inked skin. “When’s Semiu coming?”
He snickers, looking up at you from where he's now squatting against your laundry basket of wet clothes. “She’s not. Just you and me today, baby.”
Your brows raise in surprise. “But the laundry—”
“Ah, ah—" Enjin tuts around you, nudging your hip with his thigh you sink into his masterpiece of a chair. “I've got it.”
“But the drinks?” you raise an eyebrow.
"For us," he smiles. He reaches for one, cracks it open, takes a sip, then hands it over before grabbing one of your clothespins. “Just sit on that thing and look pretty, baby. I’ll put on a show.”
You're still curious, flattered, but suspicious as he starts pulling out a shirt to hang up. “And after?”
“After?” He says, pausing long enough to bend down and kiss you just once, his shadow overtaking yours for just an instance. “Then I’ll all yours.”
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