The Fold

She asks if I can take the other end. The dryer ticks behind her, cooling down. We shake the sheet out once; a little heat moves over both my wrists and disappears. Between us hangs a field of cotton, white except where one blue thread has caught the seam. She lifts her corners. I lift mine to match. Our shadows touch beneath the hanging cloth. We take two steps together, meet halfway, exchange the edges, then step back again. She knows the sequence. I am half a beat behind, but soon the fabric draws me in. She smooths a pocket of remaining air. Beyond her shoulder, in a plastic chair, a child sleeps underneath a woman's coat. The sleeve trails down. A bus goes past outside. We make the final fold against the warmth still rising through the layers. There. She holds her bundle while I reach to lift her bag and keep its handles clear. She slides it in. She thanks me, nods, and shoulders through the door. I turn back to my basket by the wall. A pillowcase has fallen to the floor. I spread it on the table, palm by palm.