The move went swimmingly. The packers were done after just three hours Monday morning, and I treated myself to a massage that afternoon. My muscles needed the relaxation. This morning, the movers arrived, and by 1 p.m., my apartment was empty. By 3:30 pm, all of my worldly possessions were in my new home.

By 7 p.m., Angie and I had completed a walk-through of my old apartment. My experience at 1217 18th did not prepare me for a walk-through of a relatively new building. I didn’t bother to point out the minor carpet stains when I moved in, and despite scouring the grease traps, they weren’t clean enough. I was used to gaping holes in the walls, brown tap water, broken windows, exposed wiring, utterly filthy floors, doors that didn’t close. Who cares about an ink stain? *sigh* I think it helped that my landlord was also my real estate agent.

And so I returned home, planning to grab some sushi and a beer, stare at my boxes, unpack my bathroom sundries and linens, and go to bed by 9 p.m. to nurse the cold I contracted last week at work. Probably from my boss.

But it’s 10 p.m., and somewhere…

Somewhere in my new home is a box carefully labeled "sheets, pillows, comforter–unpack first." Thankfully, the movers used all of my books as a base layer in the truck, so those boxes were the last to be unloaded. Dozens of painfully heavy boxes of books thus surround all the other boxes stacked up in the corner.

Somewhere, in a box, buried at the back of my living room, are pillows and an alarm clock and sheets and my bedside lamp. Somewhere behind all the books.

Somewhere are the bits I need to sleep comfortably in my bed.

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