What's in the Pocket?
-Letters from an Unknown Lover-
Prompt: "a love letter"
You meet some very strange people when you're the owner of a dry cleaner. So, it's not the best job in the world, but hey, it pays the taxes. It's a rather long story how I became the owner of this little place, but I tend to go off on long tangents, so I'll stop while I'm ahead.
So now, where was I? Oh right, so, you meet some very…different people at the dry cleaner. Well, you don't really meet them; most of them don't really talk to you. The business men in their suits send their wives who would rather be anywhere but at the dry cleaner just sort of grunt at you, you know the sort. The teenaged mother's who don't know the difference between the dry cleaner and the laundry mat, and the Hispanic woman who force you to pull out your rusty high school Spanish skills.
What's actually strange about being the owner of a dry cleaner is not really the people, but what you find in the clothes. You can tell a lot about people by what's in their pockets. Not that I've been snooping through people's pockets or anything. Before the clothes are actually dry cleaned, we need to make sure there's nothing in the pockets, or the machinery might get damaged.
Mostly it's just gum wrappers, old receipts, a couple dimes or nickels here and there, but overall nothing really special. It's a boring job actually, emptying the pockets out. If anyone invents a machine that can empty out pockets, I will pay them millions. Well, not really, but whatever.
It was a dreary Monday morning, the storm clouds looked particularly threatening and no body was out on the streets. It was that time of day – time to empty out the pockets. Big whoop!
So I empty out the pockets of this large overcoat, which was rather ugly. Sorry, it was really ugly. I stuck my hand in one of the large pockets and pulled out a piece of paper. Lovely, an old shopping list! I was about to throw it out, when I say the first line on the paper.
To my one and only love:
A love letter? Sick.
A/N: Sorry guys, this is pretty bad, isn't it? I sort of ran out of steam half way through this. But, it's a start huh?
Oh well, there goes my attempt to break out of the "angsty poetry."