The sidewalk is shiny with rain. Inside the laundromat, the proprietor leans over her counter, straightening things, singing along to the Latin ballad playing on the CD player. One of the other women doing her laundry begins to sing. A middle aged man stands staring at the TV, or maybe his dryer. I put my clothes in the dryer and head over to the polls. We’re voting in a YMCA; staffers hand out events calendars as you leave. Little kids swarm the tables where you can vote by affidavit. I get in line, a woman asks for my address and sends me to the middle table, I wait a bit and then it’s my turn. My name is not in the book. I wonder if this is because I moved a year ago and didn’t notify them (but I got an orange card a few months ago telling me where to vote in an earlier election!). Luckily, ballots are available to complete by hand. I check the box labeled “change of address” because I can’t think of any other reason I wouldn’t be on the list. For a moment, I can’t remember my old building number, and panic a little, thinking this will invalidate my ballot and what if they call me up for perjury? But it would be accidental. I fill in my bubbles, think idly about the possibility of splitting one’s vote among delegates, then fold it, put it in the envelope, seal it, and complete the form. I take it back to the table and that’s it: I voted. I wish they would give me a sticker, but I guess they don’t do that anymore. Who would see it, anyway? I’m home by myself for the rest of the night. Back to retrieve my laundry.