Dirty Laundry Secret: A Secret Crush.

It’s so busy… and it being a nice, spring day makes me want to leave work even more. But we can’t do that so here we are with hung clothes, tumbling washing machines, and Molly, who’s handling the counter.

Let’s see what she’s up to.

“Mollyyyy”  

“What’s up, Hector?”

“So,” I leaned against the counter. “Did someone really get arrested at your laundry conference?”

Molly laughed, “Yes, really.”

“A laundry conference though?!”

She laughed again, going through the pile of receipts, “I told you Hector, you never know what’s going to happen in this job!”
Before I could get another word in, a customer came in. Great, another load to wash and fold…
“Lenny!” Molly shouted. Oh, nevermind, it’s just Lenny.

“Lenny, what’s up brother?” 

“Hector, I’m so sorry, but—” I’m sorry buts are never good. “—can you please cover me today? I sprained my ankle trying to learn this new dance move and…” he rotated his wrapped ankle “it didn’t go as planned.”

Lenny’s a dancer. Pretty good honestly, but you would never guess that by just looking at him. Oh, he’s also our delivery driver. Good guy.

“W-Why me?”

“Hector,” Molly crossed her arms and laughed. “Look around… do you see anyone else who can do it?”

“Dammit.”

“Exactly.”

I huffed and prayed that would make her change her mind, but she just went back to her laptop, filling out her Google Sheets. I hate those Google Sheets, but not sure if it’s worse than driving in New York City.

Am I exaggerating? Maybe. Have I done this before? Once. Do I want to do this again? Hell no.

But, of course, there’s no one else to do it. Just me. Hector. The anxious kid from Crown Heights.

I thought all of this as I jangled my keys on the way to the truck. It was only 11:34 a.m., but the streets were already crowded – polluted even – and intimidating. I know I’m sounding negative right now, probably even annoying, but hey, you can stop reading at any time.

I lugged the hefty delivery to the back of the truck and gave the garment bag one last touch up before slamming the doors shut. The garment bags feel so nice.

I looked down the one-way street – left, right, then left again – before crossing because who knows who could be zooming to get past these red lights. The coast was clear, I ran inside to the driver’s seat like I was on a timer. Well, I kind of was because apparently miss… Gisselle was it? wants her drycleaning back ASAP. 

And ASAP for me = anxiety. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You probably think I’m driving to an apartment complex that’s 30 minutes away and is only accessible by ravaging through sus backroads. But no. It’s less than 10 minutes away (25 minutes on foot) and the route is pretty easy.

But, like I said, I hate driving in New York City.

11:42 a.m.

See, I didn’t lie. Did I need a towel to mop up my sweat after driving down the street? Yes. Yes I did.

Almost done, Hector. Come on. You can do it — that was my pep talk as I double parked on the slightly busy street and lugged the delivery out of the truck. 

Did I also mention I’m socially awkward? I do ok at the store — except when customers call me and say there’s a problem — but when it’s personal delivery to a private apartment, I get a bit queasy. I had to hold everything in while the doorman told me where to go to drop off this — now heavyish — delivery.

So, here I am, about to knock on the door. I can head back right after. Phew. Ok. 

“Dry cleaning drop off,” I spoke into the Ring when asked who it was. 

It went silent once more and I just continued standing there awkwardly  a few more moments before —

“Hi, delivery for Gi—” 

I choked. I’m actually choking. 

She was barely wearing anything. She had a silk red robe on, but it wasn’t doing its job. Underneath, she wore a black bra with black lace beneath it that connected to black, sleek panties. She was barefoot. Her hair was perfectly messy. Her eyelashes were so long for some reason. 

I looked up, down, all around except you know. Didn’t I tell you I have social anxiety? This is not helping the cause.

Wait, why am I analyzing her?!

“M-Ma’am, a-are you Gi-gi-gisselle?” I stared her dead in the eyes (or at least tried to).

“Yes, I am.” She said it so gently, it was like she whispered into my ear (wait, did she actually whisper into my ear?)

I shook my head and put the garment bag in front of me, “H-Here you go!”

She took it so swiftly, but I did feel her hands on mine. It’s like she brushed her hand against mine. AH. I can’t take this anymore. 

This is not good for my anxiety. 

“Have a good day!” I shouted, already walking away and pulling eye contact.

“Wait!”

But I didn’t. I’m about to implode.

I rushed out of that building so fast that I didn’t even realize I was back at the truck. I’m calling Molly. You see what she makes me do? She’s part of my anxiety.

*On the phone 5 minutes later after explaining*

Molly: Hahaha! You have noooo game! 

Me: E-Excuse me?! Aren’t you my boss??

Lenny: Awww, I never get that…

Me: Lenny, why are you still here…?