URSAK
The laundry bag weighs heavier than it should at 6:47 AM, but discipline demands routine regardless of how late conversation stretched the previous evening. Maya's laugh still echoes in my mind as warm, genuine, free of the careful politeness most humans employ when speaking to my kind.
Focus.Laundry requires attention to detail. Whites separated from colors. Delicates handled with care. The grass-scented detergent I imported from a specialty shop in Queens because it reminds me of home meadows, not the industrial chemical tang most Americans seem to prefer.
The hallway stretches empty and dim, emergency lighting casting everything in pale amber. My footsteps, despite careful placement, still sound like thunder against the worn carpet. Always too loud, too heavy, too much space claimed where others move with whisper-soft efficiency.
The elevator hums its mechanical greeting. Third floor to basement. Simple mathematics, predictable motion. Unlike the previous evening's conversation, which wandered through territories I hadn't expected to explore with anyone, much less a neighbor who'd started as a noise complaint.
Maya's observations aboutHamletsurface unbidden. The accuracy of her assessment bothers me more than I care to examine. Perhaps tragedy does resonate because existence often feels like navigating a world designed for different specifications, different expectations, different?—
"Shit!"
The exclamation echoes from the stairwell, followed by rapid footsteps and what sounds suspiciously like tumbling objects. My academic training in phonemic analysis suggests frustration rather than injury, but concern overrides scholarly observation.
I push through the stairwell door.
Maya sits three steps down, surrounded by an explosion of clothing. Her laundry basket lies overturned two steps below, contents scattered across the concrete landing like fabric confetti. A red sock has somehow achieved impossible height, draped across the handrail like a surrender flag.
"That's one way to sort colors from whites," I observe.
Her head snaps up, cheeks flushing pink. Morning light from the small window catches copper highlights in her hair that I hadn't noticed in apartment lighting.
"Oh god. Of course you'd see this. Of course."
"Gravity affects all laundry equally, regardless of organizational skills."
"Thanks. That's tremendously comforting." She starts gathering scattered garments, stuffing them back into the basket without regard for the careful sorting she'd obviously attempted initially. "I was being efficient. Taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Should have known better."
"May I assist?"
The question emerges before I consider whether such an offer might seem inappropriate. Helping a neighbor collect intimate apparel could easily be misinterpreted, cultural boundaries are complex enough without adding?—
"Please. Before Mrs. Fitzgerald from 2A decides to take her morning constitutional and finds my underwear decorating the stairwell."
I set my laundry bag carefully aside and begin collecting items within arm's reach. A blue cotton shirt, obviously well-loved based on the softness of the fabric. Black yoga pants that suggest regular exercise habits. A sweater that smells faintly of coffee and vanilla, distinctly Maya.
"I'm usually more coordinated than this," she says, reaching for a sock that's somehow migrated two steps up. "Yesterday was just., I don't know. Off."
"Long night of conversation followed by early morning obligations can disrupt normal motor function patterns."
"Is that your academic way of saying I'm tired and clumsy?"
"I prefer 'temporarily affected by altered sleep schedules.'"
"Much more dignified." She grins, and something warm settles in my ribs. "Though clumsy is probably more accurate."
I reach for what appears to be a delicate garment in a shade of green that reminds me of spring moss, then hesitate. Cultural protocols around intimate apparel vary significantly, and my knowledge of appropriate American boundaries remains theoretical rather than practical.
Maya notices my pause.
"It's just a tank top," she says, scooping it up herself. "But thanks for the respectful hesitation. Most guys would just grab everything without thinking."
"Respect requires thinking."
"Exactly. See? You get it."
We work in companionable efficiency, gathering the rebellion of cotton and synthetic blends back into her basket. When I reach for a blue sock near my laundry bag, our hands bump. Brief contact, but enough to register the warmth of herskin, the quick way she draws back before offering an apologetic smile.
