The Stain Set In by Benjamin Samara

The sun set, hidden behind the horizon, which welcomed in the night when the Wolf found little Red again. The Laundromat’s fluorescent lights cast a dingy yellow glow over the building’s interior. The teal floor tiles appeared a sickly green, and the aged eggshell walls seemed to ooze as the sun’s rays gave way to the shadows of night.

Red had just released the clump of wet clothes into a dryer when the door squeaked open. Red looked over to the open door and met the storm cloud eyes of the seven foot, bipedal, wolf. He brushed lint from his flannel and dark denim pants before his found hers. His thoughts had been on dinner; how hungry he was, what he wanted his wife to make, and how his cubs could have possibly thought it was a good idea to put ice cream in the washer and three packs of hot dogs in the dryer. The repairman’s jaw had dropped as low as the wolf’s. His mind went blank when he met Red’s crystal blue eyes.

Red crossed her arms. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Big Bad, himself.” Her top lip lifted to a sneer as the words left them.

“That was a misunderstanding, and you know it.” He scoffed in a voice that sounded like his gravel driveway. “My name is Eric, by the way.” He slammed his own clothing filled basket on an open washer. Red flinched at the sound, but quickly tugged her red hoodie straight. The movement portrayed strength in her mind, but her heart, which raced, wasn’t fooled. She still had the memories, and, to her, that was all she needed.

“Whatever.” She cringed at the lack of wit, but it was all she could summon. She rubbed at goosebumps that formed just beneath the comforting fabric of her hoodie. The irony of her outfit wasn’t lost on either of them, but neither laughed.

Silence. It carried on, tensed, for minutes that felt like hours. It bore down on Eric, the wolf, as he loaded a washer, but it wrapped around Red’s throat; rendered her mute, in his presence. Eventually, both stared at nothing. For Eric, it was a basket void of clothes; For Red, a washer that was barren and damp around the sides.

Eric thought of all the ways he could explain the past. Something he could say so Red would finally understand that he was justified in his actions. He was undercover. He was doing his job. He was trying to help. Nothing came to him. There was nothing he could say to the young woman before him, who tried desperately not to shake every time he moved.

Red knew she wasn’t seven anymore, but the wolf’s every breath shot her back to that day; and she wished from the marrow that it didn’t. She’d fantasized about this for years. After thirteen years, Red had considered every possible way to tell off the wolf. Every insult and way he’d ruined her life, carefully crafted to ensure emotional impact; but as she tried not to see him from her peripherals, all words faded. Her breath still stuttered and shook, her palms still leaked, and her mouth still dried to a paste. She realized that, in her mind, she was still just a seven-year-old in a homemade hoodie.

Coins clicked into machines, and the two sat on opposite sides of the room, crushed beneath the awkward silence; neither strong enough to lift it.