As Tim was leaving the corner store, he spots Josh again.
"Oh, here comes that fucker," muttered Tim.
"Hey Tim! Remember me? It's Josh from the—"
"Josh from the laundry, yeah."
"Hey, sorry again about the—"
"You apologized when you did it. You don't have to bring it up again, you—"
"Yeah, I know, but I still feel bad. Are you sure you don't want me to pay for—"
"Just forget about it. I really have to go."
"Oh, that's fine. Oh wait! I wanted to ask you a big favor! I mean, now that I have your number and we're friends and all—"
"We are not friends," muttered Tim under his breath.
"What was that? Anyway, I wanted to know if there's any chance you could take this shirt to the cleaners for me? Since you live close, and you're going home already. You're going home, right?"
"Yeah, I mean... yeah."
"Yeah? You'd do it for me? That'd be amazing, man! Just put it under my name and I'll—"
"No, I mean, yes, I'm going home, but I have—"
"Oh, Tim, you're the best! This is why I felt so bad about the bleach thing, man. I thought I was the worst, and I was on the phone and—"
"You told me already. Just let it go."
"Yeah, man, well, I was so distracted I forgot to actually wash my whites, and now I need this shirt for tomorrow. It's my dad's birthday, and you know military fathers — they bring the discipline from the field to the house. Showing up unclean, unironed, and unlaundered will get me killed."
"Well, Josh, I can't—"
"Oh, I know, I can't either! He's getting better, you know, the whole anger management thing. But I don't want to take my chances. Especially since I plan on asking him if I can move back home."
"Oh, Josh, I—"
"Can't thank you enough, Tim!"
Josh shoved the white button-up into Tim's hands. By the time Tim looked up, Josh was gone. He crumpled the shirt and tossed it in with his groceries.
At home, he stared at it, running through all the possible ways he could ruin the shirt in a "plausible" way. Something subtle enough to get away with, but more he thought about it, the more he regretted ever accepting the favor.
He unfolded the shirt. Made in Sri Lanka.
"That bougie fuck can't do his own laundry, ruins mine..."
"...the shirt is really nice, though."
He flipped it to the tag.
"Too nice for me to keep around. And the tag says don't bleach? That stupid fuck."