The first washing was on Friday.
I gathered up the laundry, took his jacket off the hook and carried it to the machine, and in the kitchen doorway I met Igor.
"Give it here."
He took the jacket, laid it on the table, turned out one pocket, then the other, and put a bolt, a coin and two receipts on the windowsill. Laid them out straight, in a row, the way I lay them out. Then he gave me the jacket back.
"There," he said. "Empty."
I took it and put it in the machine.
It took about twenty seconds and was accompanied by nothing: he didn't look at me, didn't underline it, said nothing more. Then he went into the room and turned on the television.
On Tuesday it was the same, and on Friday too.
In the third week I tried once to take the jacket before he came out of the bathroom, and managed it, and took a bolt and a receipt out of the pocket, and put them on the windowsill, and was standing with the jacket in my hands when he came out.
He looked at the windowsill, looked at the jacket and said nothing.
I did not do that again.
About that washing not one word has been said between us, not once, neither then nor since, and I don't know how much longer it will go on. It was still going on in January.
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