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My Martian Laundrette T

Alex Behr

Matt Hall

roy paid attention, so things made sense. He stood on a metal stepstool, next to a rattling dryer. His back ached. He weighed 249 pounds, which on Mars should have felt like 92 pounds, a fucking nymph, but inside the inflatable space-colony dome, he was still huge, lumbering. Colonists were naturally nostalgic, and they had set up the space colony to replicate conditions on Earth, terraforming it with artificial greenhouse gases to make it habitable. No relief for a fat man. At the back of the Laundromat, Troy poked his hand through a hole in the wire mesh covering an air exhaust vent. Someone had inched down through the vent on the other side and cut through, hoping to steal from the coin-op machines. The space colony was crawling with drug-addicted thieves. All you needed was a

clean brain scan to get here, and you could barter pharma meds for a baby’s scan from any orphanage on Earth. They always wanted meds. On Earth’s second day, God had separated the water in the air from the water on land. But on Mars, water was buried underground. The colony pumped and processed it, neutralizing the bad taste. And where water flowed, humans followed. The miners were drawn to the Laundromat not only for the promise of clean clothes but for the steaming, sudsy water in the machines— it prompted saccharine visions of waterfalls and primal memories of when they were suspended in the saltwater curve of their mothers’ wombs. The Laundromat, painted Earth’s sky-blue, had two aisles of washers separated by a long folding table. In the back were the dryers, stacked two high. About a dozen chromium miners,

Profile for Propeller

Propeller 2.3  

Propeller: Volume 2, Issue 3

Propeller 2.3  

Propeller: Volume 2, Issue 3

Profile for propeller
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