A chill ran through Abigail’s spine. She had returned from the
launderette with her regular service wash and was engaged in the tedium of
putting the clean washing away. The first item she had pulled from the crisp
nylon bag was a pair of socks. Off-white, though originally crisp white, with a
blue and red band around the top. These were a fairly unremarkable pair of
sports socks, of men’s sports socks. As a career minded singleton in her third
decade Abigail had no man in her life, certainly not one that would maintain a
relationship with a sports sock long enough for it to age to such an extent.
Abigail glanced down into the launderette’s bag and even at
a cursory glance she could see that the bag of washing Mr Williams had passed
to her over the Formica worktop of Suds Launderette earlier that day did not
contain one blouse or chemise belonging to her. Her face fell and her mind
raced to wonder which individual had received her washing and where her power
wardrobe of upper high street brand clothing now resided. A grave feeling of
powerlessness swept over her as she looked at the clock 7:18pm and on a
Saturday, it would be over 36 hours before she could return to Suds in the hope
of rectifying this terrible occurrence.
Little did Abigail know that but 3 streets over Bevan was
having a similar, yet more powerful experience as a result of this mistake born
in the heat of the lunch hour rush at Suds launderette. Bevan had always had a
complicated relationship with his gender identity, something that the societal
pressure to conform had always kept a lid on. However the untying of the coarse
handles of the laundry bag had also untied feelings Bevan had been suppressing for years. As he gazed down at clean, light fabrics of a female wardrobe the
tumblers of his mind started to click into place, starting him on the long
journey to self-fulfillment. Abigail would have been scandalised, not over Bevan’s
gender crises, but at how much better he was able to wear that strappy dress
from Zara
