Almost every week or week and one-half, depending on how many days in a row I choose to wear a single pair of socks, I come and drop off my clothes. You are always friendly and ask me how I am and we chat about the absurdity of Black Friday or how cute the otters are at the aquarium. It’s a treat to come back a few hours later and pick up my load, carefully folded and smelling fresh. I’ll tell you about the poutine I had or the fender-bender I saw in the time in between. We always leave on a cordial note but sometimes I wonder if it’s all an act, that you’re just being professional, because generally my dirty laundry is pretty fucking terrible.