INT. LAUNDROMAT — NIGHT

FADE IN: INT. 24-HOUR LAUNDROMAT - NIGHT Fluorescent hum. Eleven dryers. Ten of them wear handwritten signs: OUT OF ORDER. SORRY. REALLY. JONAH (30s, raincoat, one sock in his hand like evidence) stands before the eleventh. It turns slowly. Inside: a wedding dress, tumbling, white against the glass. He looks around. Nobody. He looks back at the dress. JONAH (to the dryer) You're kidding me. The door CHIMES. ADA (40s, bicycle helmet still on) hurries in, sees Jonah, sees the dryer, stops. ADA Don't. JONAH I haven't done anything. ADA You were going to open it. JONAH I was going to ask how long it has left. I've got one sock and a job interview at nine. Ada walks to the dryer and puts a hand flat on the warm glass, the way you might touch a sleeping animal. ADA Twelve minutes. (beat) It isn't mine. JONAH Whose is it? ADA That's what I've been trying to find out. Every Thursday, for a month. The dryer BUZZES. Stops. They both stare at it. Neither of them moves. CUT TO: