Laundromat man

A few months ago, I was at the laundromat, waiting for my bedsheets to dry and pretending to read a book I wasn’t really in the mood for.

Across from me sat this middle-aged man with a bucket hat and socks that didn’t match. He kept humming—loudly. At first, I was annoyed. But then he looked up and said, “Do you know that humming helps bread rise?” I blinked. “What?” “Yeah,” he nodded, very sure of himself. “That’s why old bakers used to sing near their ovens. The dough could hear it. Made it feel loved.” Now, I knew this wasn’t true. It made no sense. But the confidence was so strong, I nodded. I said, “That’s beautiful,” because it was. Not factual. But beautiful.

We ended up talking for nearly an hour. About bread. About love. About how socks are the most stolen item in the world (his claim, not mine). He told me he once named all his plants after past teachers, and that his tomato plant, “Mrs. Olaniyi,” had died during a breakup. “Too much sadness in the room,” he said. I laughed so hard my side hurt. When the dryer buzzed, I didn’t want to leave. We didn’t exchange names. Just a quick wave, and that was it. But for some reason, I kept thinking about him for days. About humming bread and heartbroken tomato plants. About how easy it is to enjoy life when you stop needing everything to be true before you let it be beautiful. We don’t get enough of that, I think. Conversations that go nowhere but still feel like they mattered. Small, strange connections that leave your day a little softer than it was before. I hope I meet him again. But even if I don’t, I’m glad we spoke.