Have you ever wondered if mothers are as bad as they seem?
Yesterday, I was washing my clothes at the Laundromat. Across the room, a derelict mother sat carelessly on one of these new washing machines while her child had his finger stuck in a cheap gumball machine. Her eyes were closed, but she often glanced over at the manager's office, twirling her poorly woven artificial hair. The fan gently pushed air, although room temperature, from the corner to her face, managing a bead of sweat from her brow. When the washer stops, she simply adds some quarters.
Her son had his chubby finger stuck in the rusty gumball machine for three minutes before she slid off her spinning throne to save him from his guilty peril. This "mother of the year" walked toward her mongoloid child with shame on her lip. Even though my clothes were finished drying, I continued watching the train wreck. I guess the first mistake was allowing her son to become so plump. After she made her first attempt to free her son from certain discomfort, she looked up with shifty eyes to covertly pull his finger out of the grip of the trap door that would surely not forgive his intrusion.
"Excuse me, would you be finishing soon?" I look up to see a small dark woman with a few damp clothes.
I let her use the dryer I had finished using. My attention neglected to notice the child she was cradling in her right arm. "She sure seems peaceful." I assumed the child was female because of the gaudy pink blanket with its silk border "her name is Chanequa," she smiled while unfolding the pink blanket before laying the baby down on it "I named her after an old friend.". After carefully placing Chanequa on the blanket, she looked back at me, "My name is Yesinia, but you can call me Jenny." her eyes were blue, until I saw through her clever guise. Jenny wore expensive contacts that had a blue shade to them.
Because of the awkward silence, I glanced back at the gumball machine. Beneath the metal trap door, something was oozing downward and became red on the transparent glass under the large dome of candy. Concerned and curious, I walked over to it. As I approached the scene, my ears caught the same washing machine used by the oddity of a woman still spinning loudly. Blood fell from the trap door which had gathered plenty of rust on its edges. To find the cause of the dripping blood, I lifted the small door. A chubby finger slid out and quickly landed on the white tile. I thought to myself, "Is seeing something, or someone, vaguely beautiful just as touching as watching something, or someone, with no hope at all?" .