Bina is out of clean clothes, because she has the time management abilities of a fruit fly, and she's now standing outside the 24-hour laundromat. At two in the morning in the middle of July, because work.
The lights are off, naturally. Which is weird, the sign's still on. There isn't another laundromat close by, and she really doesn't want to have to wear sweaty clothes tomorrow, so she peers through the window.
There's a flickering. Like a television, maybe. Otherwise, the place is dark and quiet.
She sighs, goes to get her laundry basket - ignoring the flickering streetlight - and walks in. It's dark, and she tries to recall the layout of the place. The customer-accessible part is kinda L-shaped, with cheap vertical-loading washing machines near the front and dryers crammed into the back corner, with the more expensive front-loading machines somewhere.
She doesn't remember where the light switch is, and as she thinks this she notices that the television's off.
She puts her laundry on a machine and starts heading in deeper, calling out, "Hello? Is anyone there? It's kind of dark, and I wanted to do some laundry, could you maybe turn on some lights?"
Not even any mechanical sounds. The air's still and hot - the air conditioning must have cut off at some point.
She walks deeper in, until she spots the row of light switches, barely visible in the dim light - between the bulletin board and the dryers.
She nearly trips over something in the dark, barely doesn't freak out, then finally manages to get the lights on.