Laundry doesn't do itself.
Even after everything, after all the fall-out, he still has dirty clothes. One week turns into two, and they pile up, but every time he leans down to pick up the basket and slip down to the laundromat, he can't do it.
He stares at the unobtrusive basket, grey, plastic, overflowing. Maybe Moist could- no. He has to do this. It's just laundry, just a stunningly boring chore.
He pulls in a deep breath, then leans in, grabs the basket and some quarters and leaves, slamming the door awkwardly with one foot.
As he walks to the corner, his mind and his stomach regret his decision. He's not ready, not yet. The clothes could've waited another day or two. He stops in front of the laundromat.
He looks normal, maybe a bit disheveled, but no one will notice him. He slips in the door and heads to his usual washer, opening it up and dumping in his clothes unceremoniously. Waves of nostalgia wash over him.
He pours in soap, put in quarters, and the wash starts, humming quietly. He hadn't prepared himself for this part, for the waiting.
Just a few weeks ago he had sat on that shelf back there with Penny, eating frozen yoghurt and listening to her speak. Over there is the bench where they nearly kissed, and there, the washer he sat on driving a spork into his leg in anger.
Her absence surrounds him like water, drowning him. He moves to a bench, not *their* bench, and sits. He looks around, but no one is watching him, so he gently rests his head in his hands and tries not to think.
Head up, Billy, buddy.
That's it, he's buying a washing machine.