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Laundromats were fixtures of a Certain Era and Place when she and I spent time in such an establishment, airing our dirty laundry so to speak, with a roll of Quarters in one hand and a box of powder detergent in the other, all on a hot Sunday August early evening in that high-desert central Texas town, and wafting into the laundromat through the propped-open door comes the smell of sweet raw crude on a wind blown south from the Pumpjacks outside of Midland, a wind that crawls up her cotton sundress as she stands in front of a Formica table and folds clothes as the spin cycle commences, and you go and grab a two hot dogs and a six pack of Coors and condoms from the convenience store that’s a hop-skip-and-jump across the laundromat’s cracked sun-baked asphalt parking lot that’s still warm from the day as twilight now settles over that high-desert central Texas town.