Just then, the smell of vomit and alcohol assaulted Cat's senses, and she blinked, taking a small step back. Then, she laughed.
"Oh, my," she said, putting her own laundry down on a nearby table, at least for the moment. It didn't take much to assess that Charlie wasn't giving much thought to separating the clothes before washing them, and it was difficult to blame her -- were Cat her, she might be in a rush to just get them away, too. As it stood, though, she saw a space to help, and couldn't resist. She found herself even more compelled to reach out to the younger woman than the last time they'd met.
"Here," she said, opening another washer. "Why don't we separate your lights and colors, so your whites don't end up pink or baby blue."
Casting a little smile at Charlie, she said, "You don't strike me as the type to be partial to pastels."
She turned to pick up her own detergent, and poured a bit to the machine she'd just opened up. "So how are you feeling? Last I saw you, you didn't seem so well."