Really liked this one? Laundromats as spaces have always fascinated me because they're virtually nonexistent where I come from and I've never been to one, so the entirety of my acquaintance with them is deferred through media. There's a fascinating intersection of qualities I normally consider antonymous that flow together in these fictional laundromats, cramped mechanization in lines and rows churning nonstop in cycles turning on tokens and coins, and entwining yet in humming, hulking, rectangular symphonies to carry out a task as old as time, rinsing second skins in quaint old windows, frothing and foaming comforts anew. It's a fusion of traits that renders laundromats strangely quaint in all their efficiency, intimate in that strange liminal glow that makes old eateries and subway tunnels seem oddly organic late into the night, (un)peopled by ghosts of ghosts, echoes of footsteps, and so fittingly a space for that especial brand of romance that weaves together two misfits on lonely nights, following trails of solitude to fellow hermits.
And so it goes for Tamaki and Inori, perched as they are on benches while the systems sing, couched between beds of suds and shadowy sheets, hearts attuned to a dynamo's beat. They toss their clothes into these portals to before-after, clean-as-they-were-in-minutes-from-now, tenses loosened in spin cycles, time itself all fluffy in the wash, letting the hours stretch and curl and heap while the moonlit waiting, undressed for a spell, exchange sideways glances looping off-course as if they too, were whirling in these machines. The art perfectly complements this sense of lazily peeking, hoping for the same, bobbing to the churn in a odd sort of stability- I love the how thick and fine the artist traces their hair, curtains through which they peer nervous and amused and giddy and coy, each seeing the other in as bright a spotlight as a the lights of a small town laundromat may provide, though as Tamaki cheerily asserts, they're already on a stage, deep in a charming game.
I also adore the detail given to the ruffles and layers on their clothes that twine and crease like fabric faces, almost enough to hear them rustle in sitting, shifting and standing up to leave, an external cycle to mirror the one within, as well as the one further within as each of our coin-tossers harbor longing dreams, playing out as many fantasies as the machines accommodate, each wondering if the other knows how she makes her head spin and her stomach flip in eager excitement, stepping into the center with all the regularity of a coin, bundling mysteries and possibilities in a hamper and tossing them into speculation's alembic, spinning, spinning, spinning until those muddy, uncertain feelings are sparkling clean, and then leaving with rueful smiles to be dyed once more in the night. Cycles move within cycles, and especially so when Tamaki makes her declaration at the end, weaving her departure too into another phase of a process, a cycle that separates you ever-so-briefly from the clothes you wrap so close, only to return them sparkling clean at the cost of a little time, the classic Around the World-Wash in 180 Gays by Girls Yearn. For Inori, those six months shall be both washing and waiting, a painful vigil for the one she loves, but also a chance to brighten herself up, dust off the old moves, clean out all the worries and meet Tamaki at her best when she pops out of circulation, crisp and fresh in the clarity of feelings, and eminently wearable (this is a metaphor for cuddling, I think). Big fan of these mildly minimalistic oneshots that let their settings, symbols and styles vocalize what their disaster gays cannot, and I hope we see more from this artist moving forward.
I like you, human.
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