"Ah, bugger it."
James glanced up at the woman struggling with the uncooperative change machine. Despite a large sign reading:
"Out"
of
"Order"
(complete with the disturbingly unnecessary quotation marks), she repeatedly tried to feed it a five-pound note. Hathaway studied her, telling himself he was only acting as he'd been trained and that no unprofessional reason was behind his close scrutiny of the woman.
She was of indeterminate age—seemingly wise and a bit world-weary, but at the same time fresh and vigorous. Her flame-red hair was pulled back in a simple, loose ponytail. A few wayward strands had escaped, and they kept falling across her face and into her eyes. She unconsciously pushed them back from her forehead, tucking them behind the fragile pink shells of her ears. In contrast to her small ears, her nose arched regally, like the prow of a proud ship.
"Bugger it," she repeated under her breath, and slapped the machine.
"I have plenty of change, if you need some." James volunteered.
She glanced at him, a flicker of suspicion at first. But she became confident after a quick scan of his honest expression. When she broke into a genuine smile, it was as though a shaft of golden sunlight cascaded into the dingy place.
"Oh, that's very kind of you, Mister . . . ?" She cocked her head inquisitively.
"Hathaway—er, James, please." He couldn't have explained why he suddenly felt bashful.
She smiled broadly and held out her hand. "Freyja," she said simply, and her grip was firm and warm. "Change would be much appreciated; otherwise, I'll have to go all the way home and come back and try this again later." She twisted her mouth at the balky change machine. "I'm here pretty much every Saturday and it's always working." As James fished coins from his pocket, she studied him. "Don't recall ever seeing you here, though."
Hathaway felt himself blush.
"I . . . er . . . always do my washing on a weeknight. But this week . . . well, suddenly it's Saturday and here I am with no clean shirts for the coming week," He didn't want to explain the sordid details of how the week's evenings had been occupied by a barroom brawl and domestic assault that resulted in a young mother nearly dying at the hands of her drugged-up boyfriend.
Yet, as Freyja considered him closely, he almost got the feeling that she knew about it anyway. But then her brow smoothed and her radiant smile returned. "Not for me. Saturday is washing day, without fail."
She loaded the washing machine, James making an effort not to stare at the clothes to see if there were any men's items included. They lapsed into silence then, watching ten days' worth of James's shirts tumbling 'round in the dryer. She was sitting next to him, their thighs nearly touching, and he wordlessly breathed in her scent, unable to identify it precisely. Freshly turned earth, woodsmoke, hyacinth, freesia, and the smell of rain cooling hot concrete . . . he sorted and categorized the different fragrances he detected until he noticed she was gazing at him, the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. He couldn't help smiling in return.
"So, James—if you don't mind my asking—what is it you do? I get the sense that it must be terribly grim." Although she kept the amused smile, James could see the wisdom behind her eyes. Maybe she's older than she appears. And he hesitated before answering. Admitting to being a policeman was often a conversation killer. People's eyes shadowed over as though curtains had pulled shut; smiles tightened, no longer open and friendly. But he felt an ability—almost a need, he realized—to trust this woman he had just met.
He inhaled.
"It can be grim, yes. I'm a police detective. Homicide, mostly."
"Oh, I knew it was something like that!" Her delight at being correct easily won over his reserve. "You seem so dour!" She almost clapped her hands with pleasure, but then she caught herself.
"Or, maybe not 'dour.' Maybe 'wiser than your years should allow.'" Her brow furrowed in concern. "You must see some terrible things."
He wanted to brush back the worry from her forehead and tuck it harmlessly behind her ear as she had done with her stray hair; wanted to take her hand in his and say how one golden smile would help him forget the things he'd seen. But before he could take action, he heard a low rumbling, like a heavy freight train passing, and felt his chair juddering beneath him. Alarmed, his eyes shot up and connected with Freyja's. Hers were also alarmed but comprehending. Fixing his gaze, she mouthed a single word.
Earthquake.
Although Hathaway had never experienced an earthquake, he knew instinctively that Freyja was right, and they both sat rigid until the rumbling and trembling ceased. James relaxed at this point, but Freyja seemed agitated still, and she jumped to her feet and went to the window, staring out at the small cottage across the road from the laundromat.
"What is it, Freyja?" He settled in beside her, only just resisting the urge to stretch his arm around her waist. "It couldn't have caused much damage. And surely, there have been earthquakes here in the past."
She was distracted, and she nodded at him without saying anything, eyes fixed on the chickens in the yard across the way. A brilliant, scarlet rooster suddenly pitched back his head and crowed loudly, and James saw Freyja bite her lower lip. As though it was entering a competition, a second rooster began to crow, this one a golden yellow. And in the garden of the cottage next door, a sooty, rust-red rooster hopped to the top of a tree stump and added his loud voice to the other two.
James was startled to hear a gasp next to him, and he turned sharply. Freyja, her face ashy white, stared out the window, eyes wide.
"Now the dog howls." Barely a whisper.
"Dog?" James asked. But she was not speaking to him. And indeed, he heard a deep, growling howl from farther down the road. How did she know?
He stared unabashedly at her, secure in the knowledge that she was utterly unaware of him. The spell was broken by the sudden harsh buzz of a washing machine, announcing the end of its cycle.
Freyja glanced at James, her eyes severe. She threw open the offending machine and hurriedly dumped its contents into the basket she had brought.
"Freyja . . ." Hathaway took hold of her arm, but she shook him off.
"No, James, it's starting. It's starting." She stared at him, her eyes piercing, icy and as old as the world. "Forget you ever met me. I must go." She turned on her heel and strode from the place, leaving only her faint and already fading scent.