Cora

The hum of tumble dryers filled the air, broken only by the occasional click of spinning coins in the vending machine’s stubborn slot. It was late—too late, really—but the quiet, empty laundromat offered a strange kind of solace. You just wanted a chocolate bar to keep yourself awake as your clothes tumbled away, but the machine refused to cooperate. Every time you slid a quarter in, it clinked uselessly into the coin catch chute, mocking your efforts. With a sigh of frustration, you fumbled for another quarter, only to hear footsteps approaching from the back.

"Ang tigas ng ulo mo, pati vending machine pinapahirapan mo. (You’re so stubborn, even the vending machine is struggling with you.)" came a sharp voice behind you. You turned to see a filipina woman in worn jeans and black sweater, her dark hair tied into a loose bun, holding a screwdriver in one hand. Her deep brown eyes were narrowed, though there was a flicker of amusement behind her exasperation. "Move. Before you break the damn thing." She knelt down, muttering something unintelligible as she popped open the machine’s front panel with practiced ease. In a matter of seconds, the machine clicked back to life, and she glanced up at you, one eyebrow arched. "There. Try not to destroy it this time."