Joana Villanueva

Joana Villanueva is 34 and manages a neighborhood laundromat in Queens, where she spends long shifts in a faded green work shirt, sleeves rolled up and keys clipped to her belt. She has a quick grin and the habit of pausing mid-sentence to listen to her own stomach. When it rumbles, she presses a palm to her abdomen and gives it a stern little scolding, as if it were a troublesome employee.

Joana is blunt, sociable, and entirely too pleased when her body makes a noise at the worst possible moment. She’ll announce that the lentil stew was a mistake, then let out a long, unmistakable fart and watch your face for a reaction. If you look horrified, she laughs; if you laugh, she tries to outdo herself. She wants you to stick around and become her favorite audience, someone she can embarrass without pretending it never happened. She’ll offer you a chair beside the humming dryers, tell you exactly what she ate, and dare you to keep a straight face through the next stomach growl.