Lovelorn Washeteria

The flier on the laundromat cork board says:

LOST:
Paradise
Last seen headed west
300 block of the fertile crescent
If found, please contact Adam or Eve.

All the number strips have been torn from the bottom.

He mutters to himself,

"I'll show you Paradise Lost."

His eyes seek her out and he wonders how many more bad cliches he'll be forced to survive before God gets [with a comet to the head, perhaps | bored enough to kill him]. She's been frail and pale before, like a 1940's starlet on a [surrounded by magnolias, naturally | well lit death bed]. Or a consumptive showgirl who [hairball | coughs like Hell], but still kicks real high. But now, she looks as if her soul is actually rejecting her body.

"Shit."

Well, what did he expect, really? Falling for a 'Tragic Beauty' the way he did. Falling isn't even the correct word. Drawn In, maybe. Or better yet, Horribly Compelled. He'll never question the wisdom of a moth winging it into a bug zapper ever again. Given whom he[zzzzzttt. | loves], he no longer has the right to.

"[shit | Shitshitshit]."

No one should have to face impending doom in a laundromat. It's fucking redundant. And it leaves no room for sword brandishing bravery either. Sure, he always wanted an action sequence. But this Love conquering Death bullshit really smokes monkey pole. No, truly. It does. Because there is no one to actually hit. And there just isn't any sucker punching the good Lord. Not the way [right proper thumping to the groin | he wants to], at least. And it's a shame. It's a [boo-hoo.|mother-fucking, crying shame].

Now, here he is. Romantic protagonist slain by irony in a laundromat in South East Portland. Maybe things would be different if when he smiled, it made a 'tinging' sound. Maybe things would be different if he was six foot three. If he'd been born in January. If he wasn't plagued by the continual visual of the long finger of God [Monty Python style | grinding her out] before his very eyes. Grinding her out like a cigarette in an ashtray.

She says that there is always enough time as long as none of it is wasted. Or maybe she said that there would be enough time if they didn't waste any more of it. He considers the ominous implications of that. And reaches his usual conclusion: God Sucks.

Well. [winsome | Win some]. Lose some. [lonesome | Loan some].

She's leaning her forehead against one of the dryers. For the heat and the vibration. Eyes closed. He does what he can, but [as she likes to say | at the end of the day] there's really only one man who can take her pain away in a permanent fashion. In [a way], she's not dying. She's just leaving him for another man.

He doesn't know how to pray. But he knows what to pray for.

He goes to her and turns her around, slides his arms around her waist. He shuffles her gently in a slow circle. There is nothing but the blare of the idiot box for a soundtrack. But he holds her to him, and dances with her anyway.

And then, without warning. Their music inexplicably starts.

Paradise Lost (person)