Everyday now is measured by Nick. It’s seven days until we sleep in the new place. Seven days of Nick.

It’s not so much that he’s an overbearing landlord, which of course he is. It’s the overall OCD, control freak creepiness.

How else to explain that my pajamas kicked lazily in the morning to the floor in a crumbled heap remained in a crumpled heap when I got home but not in the same place? He touches everything and anything, randomly reorganizing to his own inner sense of order. It is not necessarily better or more ordered, just differently ordered.

The charcoal for the barbecue leaned against one corner of the patio. It now leans to a different drummer and corner.

To spite him, we do nothing. The place is chaos. I like it that way.