What a fucking long day.

My hands are rough sand paper, and it will likely take a week or so before I get back the seven, or how ever fucking many, layers of dermis to which I have been accustomed.

I’ve been cleaning for days. Not so much because I’m particularly tidy, just a tad germphobic. I ain’t wearing no Hughesian Kleenex box shoes. But, I’m also not embracing the layers of someone else’s dust, cluttered with their long, black hair strands.

I tell myself the owner of the strands was an otherwise clean Asian woman with flowing, straight hair.

More importantly we’re here. The TV is hooked up to cable in the living room. The bed has been made. We’re all nestled in for the night. Maybe I can convince M. to fetch a glass of wine.

The ‘hood is spooky quiet. Western, spooky quiet. Like the only sound is the lonely blast of a distant train whistle. OK, it’s a commuter rail, but still and all, it’s an old one where in the wild untamed 1800s desperados and whatnot were going back and forth between San Fran and San Jose.

If only to have nice young men do the heavy lifting and to get your metal framed bed taken apart and put back together again, pro movers are the diggity bomb.

I ain’t moving from this couch or this block or this town for eons. Too fucking much work to move in any definition of the term.