"Honey, where's my slip?"

I swear my mother couldn't find a needle in a needle stack.

"You're holding it."

"Oh, right, thank you." She lifts up her only black pencil skirt to slip it on underneath.

"Oh God, mom! A thong? Do you think that's appropriate?" I move back into our little apartment kitchen to remove the Eggo waffles from the toaster. I pull out plastic plates from the cabinet above and put two waffles on each. I dash them with some cinnamon for extra flavor and finish up with butter maple syrup.

"Shut up, Colin, no one wants panty lines," she replies and walks into the kitchen and gives me a tight hug from behind. "And all my other undies are dirty."

"Gross, I'll be sure to do laundry today," I sigh, rolling my eyes. I hand her a plate and she grins before plopping down at the small kitchen table. Our tabby cat Mabel hops onto the table with a little mew and my mom scratches her head and rubs noses with her. We found her in the alley next to our apartment building when she was a kitten. Actually mom found her and brought her home, though I thought it a terrible idea to have a pet at first. Mabel won me over.

I take my plate to the table too with a pair of forks. Shortly after, we're digging in and my mother chats animatedly about last night's episode of Game of Thorns. We only have basic cable obviously so we go across the hall to Aunt Rosie's place to watch because she has HDO. She also isn't really my aunt but we just call her that because she's been so kind to us since we first moved into Avalon Apartments. Surprisingly she loves the intense show too and she's nearly seventy-five.

I glance at the clock on our little stove. "You better go, mom, you don't want to be late on your first day," I remind her.

"Oh shit, you're right. Thanks, honey bunny, breakfast was delicious." She stands up immediately and scurries like a mouse into the cramped living area. I follow her. "Is Mrs. Cunningham coming?" she asks while she throws her golden blonde hair up into a bun in front of a framed mirror beside the apartment door.

"Yeah, she'll be here around noon," I say while I help her into her jacket and offer her purse to her. Mrs. Cunningham is my home-school teacher. I did go to public school for a while but it never suited well with me. Especially when the bullying got so bad that I had to go to the emergency room. Still have a little scar near my hairline. 

"Great. Wish me luck." She smiles and turns to me to plant a big wet kiss on my forehead. I frown at her and rub at the spot. I glance in the mirror to see a smeared pink mark. I groan but go to the door and shout down the hall where she stands by the elevator already.

"Luck!" She waves then steps into the elevator car.

I stare where she had once stood. I often feel like I am the parent, but I don't mind so much. We only have each other, no other family. I think we have a good relationship.

I am about to go back inside and close the door when I get a chill down my spine. It is the kind that for sure you think some creeper is eyeing you like a succulent steak. I look behind me in the opposite direction of the elevator to see a pale bare foot and the end of a pant leg disappear around the corner at the end of the hall. That is the direction of the stairs.

Okay, that was really weird.

I brush it off and finally go back inside.

                                                                ---

I have always been kind of a neat freak even when I could barely walk. I remember having one of those toy vacuums and going all around the house with it picking up things and organizing my other toys. I loved to play house. My mother thought it was cute and she still does, but it's more like she's grateful she has her own personal maid.

I really don't mind.

This reason is why I spend my time before Mrs. Cunningham is scheduled to come over cleaning dishes and doing laundry.

After the dishes and silverware are clean and drying on the dish rack, I gather up all our dirty laundry. Mine are already together in the hamper but I find my mom's lying all over the place. Even find some silky panties hanging from her ceiling fan. Disgusting to say the least, but what I won't do for her.

Clothes piled into a decent mound in the rectangular white laundry basket, I head out of the apartment with it resting against my hip. The hallway is silent other than the loud sound of a British soccer game going on from Mr. Murphy's apartment. He's a middle-aged man who works in construction with a very thick mustache and a big bald patch. Mr. Murphy is always going on about the motherland and how much better it is and so on. He is kind of funny though. He always makes me laugh even if he is trying to be serious. I think it might be his thick accent.

When I pass his apartment door, I hear him shouting expletives and slang. He talks about football a lot or footie as he calls it. He's tried and failed many times to explain it to me but soccer and many other sports escape my interest and understanding. Yes, I know I am a sad excuse for a young growing boy, at least according to Mr. Murphy.

One uneventful elevator ride later, I find myself in the laundry room downstairs on the lobby floor.

The room isn't too big but large enough to hold about six washer and dryers each. The walls are an awful pea soup green that's molded and chipped in some spots. The tile floors are scuffed and chipped with a suspicious looking brownish crimson stain in one corner beside the faulty washer. There is a poorly stocked vending machine, a few chairs, and a change machine that I've had to kick a time or two so it would give me my quarters.

There is a large woman leaving with a sack of clean laundry as I enter. We smile faintly at each other, a sort of awkward grin between two strangers. I've seen her but she definitely isn't on my floor. I don't know everyone in my building except those on my floor and a few others.

I move to one washer, the one I often use. Isn't it kind of funny how people naturally go with what they are comfortable with? Like sitting on the same seat on the bus or always taking the same route to the dollar theater on 5th. I always automatically go to this washer and then the same dryer unless it's already in use. If it is I always feel strange. Maybe I'm just weird and totally OCD or other people do the same thing, but I can't help but think about the overlooked or the little things sometimes.

I put the whites in first and set the washer. As water starts to fill up I add the detergent. There is a bookshelf with all sorts of detergents and soaps on it but I always bring our own. There has been a case or two where I have forgotten. I would use more than one washer to get the darks done at the same time but there is this small list of rules on the bulletin board in the room and one of the rules is not using more than one washer even if there isn't anyone else in there. I think it a little absurd but I'm not the sort to take risks or break rules despite my opinions.

All is quiet except for the washer when I take a seat in a slightly uncomfortable tweed chair to the right of the machine. I brought a novel to read while I wait and flip open the paperback to where the bookmark has held my place. It's a receipt for groceries I bought last week with money from when I babysat the Lincoln twins who live just above us. My mother got laid off from her previous job and so I supported the both of us for a little while doing random things for the other tenants and the landlady. Luckily, she had had an interview this past Saturday and managed to convince them she was at all organized enough for a reception job at a huge technology company in the center of the city. I hope she can keep this one for longer than a month.