Twilight in the Launderette

No-one else here but some kind of repairman, and the woman behind the counter. Everything white gleaming, and somehow lost. Lost time in the launderette. Strange serenity in watching my clothes go round, interspersed with passages read from 2666 by Roberto Bolano. Notice twilight beginning to fall outside. Move to the bench next to the window. wish they had a coffee machine here. Twilight seems to rise from the ground tonight. The sky is bright with coastal dusk. The buildings down by the seafront are sunset tinged. Vague clouds suspended remind me of September. A woman passes by with her umbrella up. I hadn't noticed rain. Across the street, a shop selling groceries (boxes of fruit piled up on the street) has a sign still advertising Christmas trees for sale. December ghosts. A drunk man wonders by, a can of beer in his left hand, his face ragged and anxious.
The sky darkens, thick banks of cloud obscure the blue. The distant buildings are still touched with dying sun though. Sun and clouds. Usually a sign of a coming storm. Portentious twilight.
So serene in here. The television is turned down low, a soporific humming. The rhythmic clockwork mechanisms of the machines. A couple walk in. The woman has all manner of complicated instructions for her washing. The man looks bored. A woman comes in with her child, who picks up the flyers in the window (bands, club nights, pub quizzes, art shows). The mother threatens her child with a lack of treats if she doesn't put the flyers down; 'You can't read and I'll just throw them away'. They leave. The man and the woman leave. The quiet comes back.
My washing is ready. I pack it haphazardly into my bag. The street looks unreal, the light a dreamt-of shade of blue. Twilight side-effect. Everyone looks like they're waiting for the carnival to arrive.
I arrive home, and soon collapse into an early sleep.
The storm does not come.