Thinking first about the sandwich, then the rest, and again whether or not to send my writing about the incident to the erotica website. It wasn’t the kind you necessarily wanted the whole world to know. On the other hand...

We were traveling, European vacation on the cheap, doing laundry at the Bucharest hotel the last morning, last minute. What with this and that, the night before was a total bust. We’d gotten nothing done but fun, and overslept, and checkout was at 11:00. Not enough time on the clock or space in our carry-on bags, but you cope.

Coping with the coin-operated machines on the first floor, tiled space like some sort of bath or reliquary or abattoir. Eye on the digital display. Last minutes after letting the hours slip by the last night. Drinking and partying, whatever you want to call it.

After drinks to celebrate our last night in that town, I’d convinced Akemi to finally talk about men in her life before she met me, not boyfriends but definitely some who wanted to be- and sure enough one was a guy I’d been suspicious of when she and I started seeing each other. She talked about it with good humor and encouraged me in that direction too (“Come on. Don’t look so serious. It wasn’t anything”). Why? Had my face reddened? If so, I hadn’t been aware, but of course stuff happens outside our knowledge or control.

And of course I ended up laughing too. Tipsy and feeling no pain and we were together after all and this conversation was part of the fun- not some truth or dare either. And we went on talking about other stuff, what a shame it was they were tearing down old buildings, historic ones, in our neighborhood in New York, and how we’d learned about them and that a famous writer had once lived not far away, Fitzgerald. We hadn’t known. All of this we were told by an older expert, more knowledgeable than either of us. Of the developers doing their damage, he said, “They don’t realize. They’re among royalty!”

I thought of the writer, and how I’d felt reading his work and others during my formative years and that I’d never be able to write as well. And we talked about how the current administration in Washington was effectively tearing down the country Akemi had moved to and called home.

Akemi recalled one building in particular she liked, on a block you passed when walking to ours, blue with wonderful molding. She looked sad. We embraced and what a night it was. My hand sinking between her legs. She was already wet. From talk about those guys hankering for her? Of course not. I heard her whisper “Come on” again when I jokingly mentioned the idea. She was just high like me, neither of us shit-faced but open and responsive.

We’d brought our bags down with us, had everything, would leave directly.

It was on my way out of that laundry zone that I spotted Akemi’s panties on the floor. They were pink, plastered on the white tile surface. I needed a moment to recognize them, wouldn’t have known they belonged to her if she hadn’t just left ahead of me. I also saw part of a sandwich, cheese and lettuce. It must have slipped as she walked with her hands full of other stuff. That was unlike her. She is usually tidy. We were in a rush then, both of us.

Running late. We’d leave directly. I saw Akemi’s panties on the floor as I was walking out of the laundry room. They were pink, plastered on the white tile surface. I needed a moment to recognize what they were, wouldn’t have known they were hers if she hadn’t just left ahead of me. I also saw part of a sandwich, cheese and lettuce. It must have slipped as she walked with her hands full of other stuff. That was unlike her. She is usually tidy. We were in a rush then, both of us.

Coping with the coin-operated washing and drying machines on the first floor was a challenge on a hangover tiled space like some sort of bath or reliquary or abattoir. Just figuring out the currency denominations was a challenge.

I could have picked up the panties, of course, but left the chore to Akemi, knew she’d prefer that. She likes doing things her own way without interference, especially when it’s her stuff involved.

My hangover partly to blame, the laundry room felt much too bright, to the point where you wanted to shield your eyes. Place the sun never reached. There was one window, small, barred and facing an alley, and covered by a dust-clotted screen. The room had an institutional feel and like the rest of the hotel and much else in that town felt older than anything you’d find in the U.S, outside of native American ruins. Thick thick walls. Even there amid the clothes hampers, you felt the age of that country, its centuries of history, an ancient breeze blowing through- which was just the heat from the machines, of course. It was hot summer. We would be glad to get out, move on.

Coping with the coin-operated washing and drying machines on the first floor, tiled space like some kind of public bath- you expected to see fat hairy guys in sandals wandering with towels around their waists.

Just figuring out the currency denominations took more concentration than I felt ready to summon. No, this wasn’t the U.S., not Japan either for that matter.

I saw her outside, told her. She was on a bench with one of our bags opened, arranging its contents- meticulous organizing her specialty- or else looking for something she needed. She said, “I’m busy now. I’ll get them later.” Packing.

I took a quick look around for coffee, saw none, and passed two workers on my way back, was going to ask them where the checkout kiosk was. One said, “We have something to tell you first.” He made his voice sound serious but was grinning, sitting on break beside a coworker.