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From: r_rivers@cryogen.com (Rivers)
Subject: {Rivers} "Korean Dry-Cleaning Lady" (M/F, Koreans, Dry-Cleaning)
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This story has some sex in it.  If you are under 18, or object to the 
content, please don't read it.

Richard Rivers
1998


Korean Dry-Cleaning Lady


It's out of my way.  I cross the street just to pass in front of your 
shop so I can catch a glimpse of you.  I've often wondered how much my 
life expectancy has gone down, crossing that busy street all those extra 
times: twice on my way to the subway, and then again coming home.  I 
mean, the law of averages has to catch up with me sometime.  So many 
pedestrians are hit for every so many thousand crossings, like clockwork.  
The odds are inexorable, and eventually they will grind us all to dust.  
I could probably work it out exactly with a little research.  I'm good 
with numbers. 

Sometimes you're not even there.  The big picture window is empty.  You 
must be in the back then, I suppose.  Lately, I've started to slow down 
when that happens, to wait until you reappear again.  I try not to be 
obvious about it.  Usually, I set my briefcase down on the sidewalk, take 
a sip of coffee, act like I'm waiting for something.  Once, I pretended 
to straighten my tie using the reflection from your window.  I was 
peering into the depths of your shop, between the tiers of hanging 
clothes, when you emerged from the back, your husband right behind you.

I can't even remember exactly when I started doing this.  I used to go to 
another place for my dry-cleaning, one that had been recommended.  It was 
a little more upscale.  But the third time they lost some of my things, 
that was the end of it.  I had to look in the yellow pages for a dry-
cleaner and was surprised find that there was one on my way to work.  
Even though I walked that block twice a day, I never noticed your place.

Your line in the yellow pages is almost as invisible as your little 
storefront.  I just happened to recognize your address as the street 
where I catch the subway.  'Dry-Cleaners': that's the name of your store.  
Not very original, but your place is no frills, no nonsense.  

I remember when I walked in.  You were away from the counter, and the 
little area at the front was empty.  I looked around, noticing the dingy 
wood paneling, the worn plastic countertop, and I thought about leaving.  
The Korean Airlines calendar, the one they must give out for free, was 
torn, and two years out of date.  Maybe the picture has some sentimental 
value.  

What I didn't see then were the little things I came to notice later: the 
tiny vase beside the register that always has a fresh flower in it; the 
plastic cup, with the pencils so neatly arranged inside.  Your store may 
be shabby, but it's always tidy.  Still, I didn't notice any of that at 
first.  All I saw was the dinginess, and I was wary about entrusting my 
clothes to you, after my bad experience at that other place.

You heard the little bell on the door and immediately came bustling up 
from the back.  It would be a lie to say I noticed you right away.  I 
gave you the same wary scrutiny as your shop.  I remember trying to guess 
your age, deciding that you are a probably a year or two older than me.  
But then again, it's hard to tell: your life has probably been so much 
harder than mine.  You looked tired that day too, but you smiled.  I gave 
you my things and left.  Two days later I picked them up without a second 
thought.

I was relieved to find everything OK with the cleaning.  I'm not really 
that picky about my clothes.  Only the gross incompetence of that other 
place finally drove me away.  The next time I came in, I was much more 
favorably disposed.  You were helping another customer, so I had time to 
watch you.  

Your body is slender and compact, with some of the feminine softness worn 
way by hard work.  Your smile is radiant, and your manner always 
graceful, even when you were lifting heavy loads of laundry.  You smiled 
at me that day and wiped your forehead with the back of your hand.  We 
spoke briefly about the weather as I handed you my things.  I didn't 
really give you another thought until I caught my train.  Then your image 
came back to me and stayed as I sat staring at my newspaper, unseeing.  
Some time after that I found myself crossing the street for no reason in 
particular and walking past your shop.

I don't want to sound like a creep, but this has been going on for some 
time now.  In the winter, I see you sipping a cup of coffee, staring at 
the snow falling outside.  Sometimes you're reading the paper.  Your 
sweater seems too thin on your slender arms, and I wonder if you are 
cold.  When the weather turns warm, you start to wear blouses and I 
notice how white your skin is.  You probably never get out of the shop.  

Once, when you were getting my things, you turned away and I could see 
the bra strap crossing your back beneath your shirt.  I imagined the 
little marks it would leave when you took it off that night.  You would 
try to rub them, but of course, you couldn't quite reach.  Your husband 
wouldn't notice.  He's not a bad guy, I imagine, but he's just as hot and 
tired at the end of the day.  He's probably sitting on the edge of the 
bed, pulling his socks off.  When it gets this hot, I imagine you 
floating in a cool tub of water.

I came in with a shirt missing a button once.  In a drawer, you found one 
that matched perfectly and sewed it on while I waited.  I remember the 
way your brow furrowed as you threaded the needle, and how you held your 
elbows close to your body as you sewed the button back on with a few deft 
motions.  It would have taken me half an hour to do that, but you didn't 
charge me.

You are at an age when all you probably see in the mirror are signs that 
you aren't young anymore.  I imagine you notice the first few lines at 
the corners of your eyes, maybe a one or two near the mouth when you 
smile.  You don't have time, and maybe not the money, to pamper yourself, 
but I know you care about it.  You always dress neatly.  Your taste is 
simple, but you always wear some makeup. Sometimes I think you've got too 
much lipstick on, but I suppose what you're doing works: I find myself 
thinking about how full and sensual your lips are. 

I worry about you sometimes.  How many little stores like yours get held 
up in this city every year, I wonder?  I'm sure I could calculate the 
odds.  It would be even easier than figuring out when I'm going to get 
run over.  Our neighborhood is becoming gentrified, and I worry about 
your business too.  The rent has to be going up.  I don't imagine you and 
your husband own the building.  That other place, the one I used to go 
to, seems to be doing well.  I tell everyone I know that you guys do a 
better job, but I don't think any of my friends have switched.  Yuppies 
feel less threatened in a more upscale environment.  I'm sure Starbucks 
has its eye on your little storefront.

I don't think you know my name.  You ask it again every time I come in.  
I am not fooling myself into thinking we are anything but strangers to 
each other.  Still, I think about you quite often.  Many times, the 
thought of stealing that quick glance through your window on my way home 
is the only thing that gets me through a long day.  

There is no way to say what I want to say without coming across as, at 
best, a creep.  You can only trust my word that I don't mean it in that 
way.  It has gotten to the point where I feel I must do something about 
the way I feel.  

***

I'm on my way home. It's late, closer to eight o'clock than my usual six.  
It is already growing dark and the traffic has thinned out.  From across 
the street I see you through the window, bending over the register.  As I 
cross the street, I can see that you are putting things away under the 
counter.  I quicken my pace, arriving at the door just as you do.

Through the half open door, you tell me I'm too late.  You've just locked 
up the register.  You're very sorry, but could I come back tomorrow?   

The moment is horrible, awkward.  I want to run away.  I have to make you 
let me stay, but that means improbably bridging the gulf between us.  
Things like this really do happen, I imagine, but not to me.  I tell you 
that I don't have any cleaning to pick up.  You raise your eyebrows.  You 
look startled but also a little amused.  It's not the wary suspicion I 
expected and I grow a little bolder.  

I tell you that I just wanted to say hello, and you surprise me again by 
laughing as you open the door.  I'm not sure what I expected - to be 
thrown out on my ear most probably.  Everything after that awful moment 
of breaking the ice was just a fool's hope anyway.  The little bell 
jingles as the door closes behind us.  

I find out you remember my name.  You even know a few things about me.  
I'm not always careful to clean out my pockets, it turns out.  You always 
check, you have to, and you put everything back.  Still, you say, when 
you do people's clothes, you get to learn things about them, things they 
would never suspect.

I love hearing your voice. Your thick accent gives the words a singsong 
quality that is mesmerizing me.  You're the midst of a story about 
something left in a pocket one time, but I'm not listening.  I've never 
seen your eyes sparkle this way before.  

And then you are telling me that you know I live alone.  I interrupt, and 
ask your name.  It has two long vowels, and it rolls off your tongue like 
music.  

The room seems to close in around us.  I wonder how long I've been in 
there.  It seems like forever.  You're telling me that your husband is 
away, you mean he's gone home for the night already.  He's going to some 
card game.  You're explaining the rules of the game to me as we edge 
sideways between the hanging clothes, but your voice is muffled.  I 
cannot understand what you're talking about.

Your lips are soft full against mine.  After that, there isn't any more 
talking - sounds, but no more words.  My arms are around you and yours 
around me.  Your body feels firm and smooth when I run my hands up and 
down your back.

You are a little shy, maybe embarrassed and surprised at how eagerly I am 
touching you.  You haven't been the object of such ardor in a long time.  
It makes you tremble.  But I can feel when you finally accept it.  Your 
head becomes heavier resting on my shoulder.  

I realize that you have probably been on your feet all day long.  How 
rude of me to keep you standing.  There is a pile of something soft, 
laundry I suppose, and I gently guide you down onto it.  I slip your 
shoes off and massage your feet.  You protest slightly at first, as if 
you don't deserve it. 

Your breasts are soft, and they fit my hands perfectly.  I pull your 
blouse out from your skirt and begin to undo the buttons from the bottom.  
You start at the top and we meet halfway.  Our fingers intertwine and you 
hold my hand for a minute before you let me take your shirt off.  

Your body feels smooth under my tongue.  I linger here and there, but my 
goal still lies hidden under your skirt.  You remove it by yourself, but 
you let me do the panties.  Now I'm looking up at your face, framed 
between your thighs.

When I'm finished, you help me out of my clothes, folding everything 
neatly and setting it in a little pile.  I feel guilty.  I just threw 
your things off to the side.  Your passion surprises me.  After the 
methodical way you handled my clothes, I wasn't sure.  But all of a 
sudden, your lips and tongue are everywhere.  When I can stand it no 
longer, I pull your face to mine and kiss you deeply.  

Then I'm on top of you.  The soft pile of clothing is folding around us.  
I'm surprised by how much you want it, the way you grasp me so tightly, 
pulling me in.  I want to pause for a moment, to savor the feeling of 
being inside you, but you are urgent.  Your body is straining against me.  
I've got my hands under you and I'm pulling myself in as hard as I can, 
losing myself in your soft, firm grip.

The release is draining.  I feel your body shuddering under me.  You 
squeeze me more tightly, wringing out everything I have left.  We both 
breathe in ragged gasps, our chests heaving and pressing together for a 
long time afterwards.  

Gradually I become aware again.  In the distance, a car honks its horn.  
I feel the subway rumble by below us.  A faucet is dripping nearby.  

We dress in silence.  You smooth your skirt and hair before leading me 
back through the hanging clothes to the front of the darkened store. 

The night air feels cool on my skin as you open the door for me.  There 
is a hint of fall in it.

I've been thinking about this for a long time.  I was up half the night, 
writing.  Please don't think badly of me: this is the only thing I could 
think of to do.  

When I've finished, I'll slip it into my jacket pocket, the one I'm 
taking to be cleaned.  I'll be back in two days to pick it up, probably 
just before eight o'clock.

Fin



Richard Rivers
1998


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