Dryers were humming softly in the corner, and there—oh sweet moon goddess—was the holy grail:
A dryer full of clothes.
Still spinning. Still hot. Still—ugh—full of someone else’s laundry.
“Is this technically stealing?” I whispered.
Robert gave me a look. “Would you prefer we stroll into the diner naked again and traumatize someone’s grandma?”
Touché.
We waited until the machine stopped spinning. I grabbed a pair of jeans that didn’t scream “I own six cats and crochet plant holders,” and a flannel shirt that was only mildly too tight.
Robert somehow found cargo pants and a hoodie that made him look like a retired action movie star trying to stay anonymous in a supermarket.
We dressed in record time, left a very apologetic sticky note on top of the dryer—“Sorry for the clothes. It w
