I’ve put a load of clothes in the dryer at the laundromat across the street, and when I come back half-an-hour later, it’s nowhere to be seen. It’s near closing time and the machines all stand empty. I ask the young man, possibly the son of the owner, if he’s seen my clothes. He points to some baskets emptied from machines at the end of the day, none of which is mine. He shrugs: someone must have walked off with them, he says. His nonchalance aggravates me, and I say, with an edge in my voice, ‘But someone must have been here and seen something! Who was working?’ He asks the woman cleaning up behind the desk, and they speak animatedly in Chinese. Then he turns to me and points to a middle-aged black couple standing outside on the sidewalk. ‘They were here last, maybe they have your clothes.’ I thank him curtly and walk outside to where the couple are standing. The man is resting on a cart filled with laundry bags. ‘Um, excuse me,’ I say. I explain that my clothes have gone missing, and indicate which dryer I believe they were in. I’m half-expecting hostility, but the man is surprisingly gracious. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘let’s have a look then.’ He pushes the cart back in the laundromat and parks it next to the folding tables. His wife, who’s standing outside finishing a cigarette, asks me again which dryer my clothes were in, then asks her husband, ‘Were you even paying attention?’ Then to me, ‘He barely pays attention when he’s doing the wash. It wouldn’t surprise me if he grabbed your clothes.’ The man opens his bag and starts rifling through. ‘This yours? No,’ he corrects himself, ‘I do believe these are mine…’ He takes out the items one-by-one and tosses them on the folding table. None of the clothes in the first bag are mine. He repeats this process with the second bag: still none are mine. This whole endeavor, I realize with a sinking feeling, could become extremely embarrassing. The woman has come in now to lend a hand. ‘You sure none of these is yours?’ she asks, as she sorts through the clothes that have already been spread out. ‘I’m sure,’ I say meekly. The man unties and opens the last bag: there on top are a pair of my underwear. ‘Those are mine!’ I say excitedly. ‘See, what’d I tell you?’ the woman says, scolding her husband. ‘She’s right,’ the man says, as he helps me remove my clothes from the bag. ‘I barely pay attention. It’s lucky we was outside still.’ ‘Damn lucky,’ the woman adds. They apologize profusely, but for some reason I feel like it’s me who should be apologizing.