Sunflower
Andy said she’d do Teddy’s laundry for them. It had been raining all week, and she didn’t have a dryer, so she went to the laundromat for the first time. Brought her laundry as well.
My basket, she thought, is so happy. Andy was one of those people who’s really into purple, and she loved this about herself. She wanted everything to be as beautiful as an undressed shallot. She’d like to live in a purple house if she could only afford the deposit. It’s really the only colour that people get obsessed with. A shared community. She would nod at other aficionados, as one taxi driver might nod to another, letting them merge at their own expense.
She loaded her clothes. Violet blouse with white and violet gingham collar; purple undies of every shade; some necessary white tees; mauve linen apron dress; purple pants (also navy jeans and blue jeans); various op shop printed tees featuring purple; various op shop blouses and skirts featuring purple; purple shift dress; purple cashmere sweater that shouldn’t be in there that she’ll handwash at home. Then the powder, colour protect, coins, and it’s off and running.
Now Teddy’s.
No wonder they’d gotten so depressed, she thought, looking at their basket. They had as much beige as she had purple, and it made her sad. White or black tee shirts then beige or cream button shirts. Khaki shorts and cargo pants and corduroys. Tan socks and ecru socks. Boring undies. Dark beige or French beige or buttercream overshirts and jackets. Acrylic grandad jumpers, all ugly, in browns and mustards and beige.
Horrible! thought Andy. She wondered why she’d never noticed how sad Teddy’s wardrobe was. But the clothes seemed happier when they were embodied, accompanied by Teddy’s smile and belly laugh. Shining eyes. Maybe that’s why they dressed this way, she thought, to draw attention to the happiness on their face.
Andy and Teddy were newish friends, which excited Andy, who didn’t really make new friends anymore. She’d been stuck with the uni friends who all seemed much posher now that they didn’t do drugs and made AI generated LinkedIn posts.
Once Teddy’s stuff was on, Andy planned the pick-me-up gifts she’d take them when she returned their clean clothes. Some nice things. Sunflowers, for starters. Everyone loves sunflowers. A bar of fancy chocolate. A couple of kiwis. Suncream, because she wants them to spend more time lying in the park, but they’ve got a lot of moles. Maybe some purple socks. Maybe she’ll even go to an op shop and find them a colourful shirt to wear now that they’re trying to get better. But maybe not. Because if they didn’t start wearing the shirt she’d feel bad, and if they felt pressured to wear the shirt because it was a gift she’d also feel bad.
Teddy had taken themselves to hospital. They would go down Friday evening, having finished up some work in the library, because they didn’t know how long they would have to stay, and they didn’t want to fall behind. That stress wouldn’t help. They packed their trackies in their backpack to change into at the end of the day. Then, having made sure that all their emails were dealt with, they cycled down to the hospital and found somewhere reasonably secure-looking to leave their bike for however long this was going to take.
The emergency room was full. Friday evening. When Teddy whispered to the junior doctor running triage that they were worried about killing themself she ushered them to the top of the queue and into a private waiting room for the most urgent cases, away from the impact injuries, who’d been waiting for hours, and who looked annoyed at Teddy’s special treatment. Teddy felt guilty. They didn’t feel urgent. The nurse checked their bag and took their laptop charger and phone charger and hay fever medication. The nurse said he’d keep it safe. He took them to another room behind a big observation window with a mattress on the floor. The wallpaper on the other three walls was a long photo of waves creeping up the sand. The nurse left Teddy with a packaged cheese sandwich and said that a worker would be in soon and then buzzed himself out.
The worker came and told Teddy that they were panicking, gave them some Valium, watched them swallow it, and noted the time. Teddy didn’t feel like they were panicking – in fact they felt very prepared. They just didn’t know what was going on in their head at the moment. Imposter syndrome. That’s what they would call it at uni during an orientation presentation. You do deserve to be here, actually, because you’ve earned it, even if you’ll sometimes feel the opposite. Teddy needed to remember that – that they deserved to be here. The worker eventually sent them to bed. The ceiling was a chaos of alarms and sensors and vents. Teddy took a picture, sent it to Andy, and put their phone back on airplane mode, because their charger had been confiscated. Slept well with the Valium.
When the psychologists and workers discharged Teddy, they emailed their notes. Teddy presents well, one assessor said, and makes good eye contact. Slim build, wearing a loose-fitting beige shirt; tracksuit bottoms; beige loafers. Engaged thoughtfully and reflectively throughout the meeting. Low, overwhelmed, anxious. Closed body posture, fidgeting and restless but remained seated throughout.
Teddy told Andy most of this when she went to pick them up after discharge. She didn’t drive, so they walked towards Teddy’s place together. On the corner of a street, they passed what had once been a church and black community centre, where Bob Marley had recorded one of his music videos. They read this on the construction company’s street boards, with information about the space’s former history alongside ads for the prospective flats. Andy thought oh how interesting. Teddy didn’t like it.
They stopped for Vietnamese, because the food in care was no good, Teddy said, and they wanted a proper feed. Andy thought she’d need to do most of the talking and caught Teddy up on trying to arrange a stuff handover with her ex, but he was being difficult. Andy told Teddy that her ex always wanted to finish on her face. She said she didn’t mind. Teddy didn’t like it when their friends would talk about their sex lives around them. It was a boundary Teddy often had to set. It put them off their pho.
Teddy told Andy how lovely all the community workers and social workers had been to them during their stay. How the workers had inspired them. How they would have loved to do something like that with their life, but that they probably weren’t strong enough – mentally, and so on. Andy had ordered a spicier soup and was regretting it. One of the workers, Teddy’s favourite, was cool and had painted nails. He’d offered to paint Teddy’s nails one morning after the daily assessment, but Teddy had said no, and they weren’t sure why.
Andy told Teddy that she could paint their nails, if they liked. Teddy would only risk something quiet like black or navy, and they assumed that Andy only had shades of purple, and when Andy was back home and checked the bathroom cabinet, Teddy was largely right, although there were some shades of pink in there. But she’ll buy some black polish, she thought, and pretend to Teddy that she’d always had it. Then she’d always get to be the friend who painted Teddy’s nails for the first time.
Remembering this, Andy added black nail polish to her list of nice things that she’d take to Teddy.
Andy’s barrel, spinning and wet, had gone a single shade of dark purple, almost touching navy.
She wore less purple when she was with her ex. Her ex was an oil painter with very wealthy parents, and Andy would go to his shows. The dominant colour there was black. Black shoes with buckles, baggy pleated pants, long coats in the winter. You look like a child like that, her ex said. Can you please put more thought in before you come to these. But Andy wasn’t with her ex anymore. After she’d broken up with him, she listened to the Les Mis soundtrack for a full week.
The laundromat was empty, save the owner hemming a pair of trousers on an ironing board in the corner. Maybe people don’t use laundromats anymore. Maybe they’re just fronts for money laundering, because how else could he afford the rent? The Coin Wash is a good name.
The street outside was oily. People hopped into trams when the downpour started, so there’s no people watching for Andy. And she didn’t bring her book. The bench croaked when she grabbed her phone. No good notifications. The room felt damp. She thought that it would be nicer in here if the owner burned some incense, or maybe had a few monsteras, or maybe just some radio would help. Suddenly she heard the pub next door. Probably the footy. She went out for a cigarette under a dripping overhang. She normally only smoked at the pub. But today she thought she deserved one. She felt the owner watching her, but she didn’t turn around.
The day might brighten again, Andy felt, hopeful, but maybe that was the nicotine. Andy had asthma, so cigarettes were a treat. A little bit of killing herself. Just enough. That pigeon watched her, too. Bobbed its neck.
The clothes fit into the big dryer drum altogether. Her’s and Teddy’s. Still warm and humid from its last spin. Another forty-five minutes or so.
Notepad! She had that. Bound in violet cloth. She didn’t know why she brought it everywhere when bag space was limited. She liked to think that she’d need it to write when she’s out and about, but Andy never wrote. The first three pages have some half-cocked poetry about the breakup, back when she first got the notepad, months ago.
Excuse me, she said to the owner, now ironing with lots of steam. Sorry, she said, and he looked up at her. Sorry, but do you have a pen I could potentially borrow please?
Just make sure you give it back, he said, holding out the biro from his breast pocket, behind the ironing board, and Andy went to grab it.
Rain stopped, he said.
Thank you of course I will, Andy said. Yeah crazy.
She opened a new page. She’d draft out something nice for Teddy. Something to go with the sunflowers and chocolate and clean clothes. She imagined her writing finished before she’d started, printed on good paper, thick and cream and textured, then laminated and stuck to the inside door of Teddy’s wardrobe so that every morning they would smile and think of her. She started. Didn’t want to overthink it.
Things I love about Teddy
The biro scratched. Dust on the nib.
How Teddy hates littering so will carry a cigarette butt around until they find a bin.
The laundromat owner took a sip of Monster and started coughing so much that he had to put the iron down.
How Teddy speaks slowly and softly but gesticulates with so much more energy.
Andy looked over at the dryer. It whirred and stopped then whirred and stopped. She remembered once, at the pub, how Teddy made fun of her (in a nice way) for gesticulating while she was talking to her dad through her AirPods, as if her dad could see.
How Teddy doesn’t wear colourful clothes. They dress the colour of moss or an olive or tree bark.
The owner had finished ironing. Business was still slow. He sat on one of the benches and went through his Reels, sound on full.
The sound of their laugh – I can hear it now.
Clara popped a couple paracetamol from their blister pack and knocked them back with water. Loud and dank the laundromat had given her a headache. The dryer was into its continuous whirring stage.
How we sit outside the pub and chain-smoke with pints of Guinness and have long conversations about stuff I’ve never discussed. Teddy opens these conversations in a way that no one else can.
The buildings opposite were suddenly golden. Nice day now. Black clouds still visible, but over somewhere else. Andy’s suburb had that late-day blast of low sun, lovely after rain, just before the sunset. Andy could smell it coming.
How Teddy sees so much beauty in the world but rarely shares it because he doesn’t want to seem pretentious.
A cyclist yelled at a Tesla driver, probably Uber, for pulling in without checking the bike lane.
How Teddy comes to parties begrudgingly but then has lots of fun.
Andy was invited to a house party tomorrow. She was keen to get into bed with someone again, but she was also nervous. Maybe she’d use Teddy as an excuse to flake.
How eclectic Teddy’s friends are. Like they’ve curated it. Friendship for Teddy is different to anyone else I know. It seems more sacred.
Andy scratched the back of her head, which she knew she shouldn’t. She’d been getting dandruff. She added tea tree shampoo to a shopping list on her phone.
How Teddy loves cats an inordinate amount.
Tapped her Tabis against the dirty floor.
How Teddy is my first new friend in years. And how surprising our friendship has been and how isolated it is but I think that makes it extra special because it feels purposeful.
Phone buzzed but Andy ignored it. Buzzed again. She got it from her pocket to look, but it was nothing important. Andy opened Instagram since she was here now. Some friends on holiday together. Andy wasn’t invited but she had work. Nothing else was interesting.
How Teddy asks questions.
Really, Andy thought, no one else ever asks me how my day was. Or, if they do, no one else wants an answer longer than yeah good or yeah fine.
How Teddy is touched by fairy dust and lives in a world that isn’t quite real and there’s no one like them.
Sunflowers, yes, that’s what Teddy really needed. Such affinity there, thought Clara. So bright, so joyful, but also (and she cringed – she won’t tell Teddy this) always on a precarious tipping point. Always about to die. A joy about to turn.
How thoughtful Teddy is.
One last big spin of the dryer shook the room. Then the beeping. She finished up.
How Teddy got help when they needed it and how they talk about it frankly and how hard they’re trying now to get better.
Big warm sack over her shoulder. She’d sort through it at hers. Out on the street the pigeon was still there, curious, and Andy smiled.
Luca Demetriadi (he/they) lives and writes on unceded Wurundjeri land. Luca is a PhD candidate at the University of Melbourne, researching independent publishing. Luca's writing has been published in The Stinging Fly, Death Kit, Debris Magazine, and elsewhere.