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From: "Richard Rivers" <richard_rivers@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP "Korean Dry-Cleaning Lady" by Richard Rivers (MF rom, sex, laundry)
Date: Mon, 7 Feb 2000 10:10:05 -0500
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The usual disclaimers: This story contains graphic descriptions of sex and
should not be read by minors. If you received this story by email, it is
not with the knowledge or consent of the author. Permission is granted to
display this story freely on any web site so long as no monetary
compensation is sought and the author is duly credited.
***
My reasons for re-posting this story now are a little vague, even to
myself.
It might interest readers to know that this is a tribute to a real
person: the weary but beautiful lady who runs the dry-cleaners in my
neighborhood. Every time the little strip mall (or whatever you call it)
where her shop is located undergoes a transformation - a change of
ownership, renovation, what have you - I am always surprised and delighted
to see her place still in business.
I suppose this is a tribute to her for making it to the millenium.
Someone who read the story when first posted commented that they thought
it was demeaning to the woman in some way. I can assure you that nothing
was further from my intention. Of course, you the reader should be the
final judge of that.
It should be enough to say that my heart still beats a little faster
when I pass her storefront. And, unlike most people, when I happen to
spill something on my clothing or get mustard on my tie, there is a secret
measure of joy in it for me.
Richard Rivers http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Rivers/www/
Korean Dry-Cleaning Lady By Richard Rivers
It's out of my way. I cross the street just to pass in front of your
shop so I can catch a glimpse of you. I've often wondered how much my life
expectancy has gone down, crossing that busy street all those extra times:
twice on my way to the subway, and then again coming home. I mean, the law
of averages has to catch up with me sometime. So many pedestrians are hit
for every so many thousand crossings, like clockwork. The odds are
inexorable, and eventually they will grind us all to dust. I could
probably work it out exactly with a little research. I'm good with
numbers.
Sometimes you're not even there. The big picture window is empty. You
must be in the back then, I suppose. Lately, I've started to slow down
when that happens, to wait until you reappear again. I try not to be
obvious about it. Usually, I set my briefcase down on the sidewalk, take a
sip of coffee, act like I'm waiting for something. Once, I pretended to
straighten my tie using the reflection from your window. I was peering
into the depths of your shop, between the tiers of hanging clothes, when
you emerged from the back, your husband right behind you.
I can't even remember exactly when I started doing this. I used to go
to another place for my dry-cleaning, one that had been recommended. It
was a little more upscale. But the third time they lost some of my things,
that was the end of it. I had to look in the yellow pages for a
dry-cleaner and was surprised find that there was one on my way to work.
Even though I walked that block twice a day, I never noticed your place.
Your line in the yellow pages is almost as invisible as your little
storefront. I just happened to recognize your address as the street where
I catch the subway. 'Dry-Cleaners': that's the name of your store. Not
very original, but your place is no frills, no nonsense.
I remember when I walked in. You were away from the counter, and the
little area at the front was empty. I looked around, noticing the dingy
wood paneling, the worn plastic countertop, and I thought about leaving.
The Korean Airlines calendar, the one they must give out for free, was
torn, and two years out of date. Maybe the picture has some sentimental
value.
What I didn't see then were the little things I came to notice later:
the tiny vase beside the register that always has a fresh flower in it; the
plastic cup, with the pencils so neatly arranged inside. Your store may be
shabby, but it's always tidy. Still, I didn't notice any of that at first.
All I saw was the dinginess, and I was wary about entrusting my clothes to
you, after my bad experience at that other place.
You heard the little bell on the door and immediately came bustling up
from the back. It would be a lie to say I noticed you right away. I gave
you the same wary scrutiny as your shop. I remember trying to guess your
age, deciding that you are a probably a year or two older than me. But
then again, it's hard to tell: your life has probably been so much harder
than mine. You looked tired that day too, but you smiled. I gave you my
things and left. Two days later I picked them up without a second thought.
I was relieved to find everything OK with the cleaning. I'm not really
that picky about my clothes. Only the gross incompetence of that other
place finally drove me away. The next time I came in, I was much more
favorably disposed. You were helping another customer, so I had time to
watch you.
Your body is slender and compact, with some of the feminine softness
worn way by hard work. Your smile is radiant, and your manner always
graceful, even when you were lifting heavy loads of laundry. You smiled at
me that day and wiped your forehead with the back of your hand. We spoke
briefly about the weather as I handed you my things. I didn't really give
you another thought until I caught my train. Then your image came back to
me and stayed as I sat staring at my newspaper, unseeing. Some time after
that I found myself crossing the street for no reason in particular and
walking past your shop.
I don't want to sound like a creep, but this has been going on for some
time now. In the winter, I see you sipping a cup of coffee, staring at the
snow falling outside. Sometimes you're reading the paper. Your sweater
seems too thin on your slender arms, and I wonder if you are cold. When
the weather turns warm, you start to wear blouses and I notice how white
your skin is. You probably never get out of the shop.
Once, when you were getting my things, you turned away and I could see
the bra strap crossing your back beneath your shirt. I imagined the little
marks it would leave when you took it off that night. You would try to rub
them, but of course, you couldn't quite reach. Your husband wouldn't
notice. He's not a bad guy, I imagine, but he's just as hot and tired at
the end of the day. He's probably sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling
his socks off. When it gets this hot, I imagine you floating in a cool tub
of water.
I came in with a shirt missing a button once. In a drawer, you found
one that matched perfectly and sewed it on while I waited. I remember the
way your brow furrowed as you threaded the needle, and how you held your
elbows close to your body as you sewed the button back on with a few deft
motions. It would have taken me half an hour to do that, but you didn't
charge me.
You are at an age when all you probably see in the mirror are signs that
you aren't young anymore. I imagine you notice the first few lines at the
corners of your eyes, maybe a one or two near the mouth when you smile.
You don't have time, and maybe not the money, to pamper yourself, but I
know you care about it. You always dress neatly. Your taste is simple,
but you always wear some makeup. Sometimes I think you've got too much
lipstick on, but I suppose what you're doing works: I find myself thinking
about how full and sensual your lips are.
I worry about you sometimes. How many little stores like yours get held
up in this city every year, I wonder? I'm sure I could calculate the odds.
It would be even easier than figuring out when I'm going to get run over.
Our neighborhood is becoming gentrified, and I worry about your business
too. The rent has to be going up. I don't imagine you and your husband
own the building. That other place, the one I used to go to, seems to be
doing well. I tell everyone I know that you guys do a better job, but I
don't think any of my friends have switched. Yuppies feel less threatened
in a more upscale environment. I'm sure Starbucks has its eye on your
little storefront.
I don't think you know my name. You ask it again every time I come in.
I am not fooling myself into thinking we are anything but strangers to each
other. Still, I think about you quite often. Many times, the thought of
stealing that quick glance through your window on my way home is the only
thing that gets me through a long day.
There is no way to say what I want to say without coming across as, at
best, a creep. You can only trust my word that I don't mean it in that
way. It has gotten to the point where I feel I must do something about the
way I feel.
***
I'm on my way home. It's late, closer to eight o'clock than my usual
six. It is already growing dark and the traffic has thinned out. From
across the street I see you through the window, bending over the register.
As I cross the street, I can see that you are putting things away under the
counter. I quicken my pace, arriving at the door just as you do.
Through the half open door, you tell me I'm too late. You've just
locked up the register. You're very sorry, but could I come back tomorrow?
The moment is horrible, awkward. I want to run away. I have to make
you let me stay, but that means improbably bridging the gulf between us.
Things like this really do happen, I imagine, but not to me. I tell you
that I don't have any cleaning to pick up. You raise your eyebrows. You
look startled but also a little amused. It's not the wary suspicion I
expected and I grow a little bolder.
I tell you that I just wanted to say hello, and you surprise me again by
laughing as you open the door. I'm not sure what I expected - to be thrown
out on my ear most probably. Everything after that awful moment of
breaking the ice was just a fool's hope anyway. The little bell jingles as
the door closes behind us.
I find out you remember my name. You even know a few things about me.
I'm not always careful to clean out my pockets, it turns out. You always
check, you have to, and you put everything back. Still, you say, when you
do people's clothes, you get to learn things about them, things they would
never suspect.
I love hearing your voice. Your thick accent gives the words a singsong
quality that is mesmerizing me. You're the midst of a story about
something left in a pocket one time, but I'm not listening. I've never
seen your eyes sparkle this way before.
And then you are telling me that you know I live alone. I interrupt,
and ask your name. It has two long vowels, and it rolls off your tongue
like music.
The room seems to close in around us. I wonder how long I've been in
there.
It seems like forever. You're telling me that your husband is away, you
mean he's gone home for the night already. He's going to some card game.
You're explaining the rules of the game to me as we edge sideways between
the hanging clothes, but your voice is muffled. I cannot understand what
you're talking about.
Your lips are soft full against mine. After that, there isn't any more
talking - sounds, but no more words. My arms are around you and yours
around me. Your body feels firm and smooth when I run my hands up and down
your back.
You are a little shy, maybe embarrassed and surprised at how eagerly I
am touching you. You haven't been the object of such ardor in a long time.
It makes you tremble. But I can feel when you finally accept it. Your
head becomes heavier resting on my shoulder.
I realize that you have probably been on your feet all day long. How
rude of me to keep you standing. There is a pile of something soft,
laundry I suppose, and I gently guide you down onto it. I slip your shoes
off and massage your feet. You protest slightly at first, as if you don't
deserve it.
Your breasts are soft, and they fit my hands perfectly. I pull your
blouse out from your skirt and begin to undo the buttons from the bottom.
You start at the top and we meet halfway. Our fingers intertwine and you
hold my hand for a minute before you let me take your shirt off.
Your body feels smooth under my tongue. I linger here and there, but my
goal still lies hidden under your skirt. You remove it by yourself, but
you let me do the panties. Now I'm looking up at your face, framed between
your thighs.
When I'm finished, you help me out of my clothes, folding everything
neatly and setting it in a little pile. I feel guilty. I just threw your
things off to the side. Your passion surprises me. After the methodical
way you handled my clothes, I wasn't sure. But all of a sudden, your lips
and tongue are everywhere. When I can stand it no longer, I pull your face
to mine and kiss you deeply.
Then I'm on top of you. The soft pile of clothing is folding around us.
I'm surprised by how much you want it, the way you grasp me so tightly,
pulling me in. I want to pause for a moment, to savor the feeling of being
inside you, but you are urgent. Your body is straining against me. I've
got my hands under you and I'm pulling myself in as hard as I can, losing
myself in your soft, firm grip.
The release is draining. I feel your body shuddering under me. You
squeeze me more tightly, wringing out everything I have left. We both
breathe in ragged gasps, our chests heaving and pressing together for a
long time afterwards.
Gradually I become aware again. In the distance, a car honks its horn.
I feel the subway rumble by below us. A faucet is dripping nearby.
We dress in silence. You smooth your skirt and hair before leading me
back through the hanging clothes to the front of the darkened store.
The night air feels cool on my skin as you open the door for me. There
is a hint of fall in it.
I've been thinking about this for a long time. I was up half the night,
writing. Please don't think badly of me: this is the only thing I could
think of to do.
When I've finished, I'll slip it into my jacket pocket, the one I'm
taking to be cleaned. I'll be back in two days to pick it up, probably
just before eight o'clock.
Richard Rivers Copyright 1998
This and other of my stories can be found at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Rivers/www/
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