The Move

The Move by Helen Spaxman March 29, 2010.

She goes down the stairs, picks up another box and starts back up the three flights. Passing her boyfriend on his way down, she puts on a brave face; she straightens her posture. A few more steps and she rests the box on the wrought iron banister, looking down at the large pattern of green and gold diamonds of the thinly carpeted hallway of the second floor. The smell of onions cooking reminds her of her mother’s kitchen, a home like she hopes to make someday soon.

She hears her boyfriend trudging up the stairs again. He is muttering about the so-called friend they helped to move this morning, that ditched them for a paying job this afternoon.

She wipes the sweat of her upper lip on her bare forearm and heaves the box up the next flight of stairs to their top floor apartment.

They arrive at the same time in the kitchen and drop their boxes on the table. He turns and, still muttering, goes back down through the hot three storey walk-up to the cool lobby. She picks up his box and moves it to the bathroom. She resists the urge to open it and to place the items lovingly on shelves and in the cabinet. She longs to place his items next to hers, to arrange them within categories of height or frequency of use, keeping his most accessible so that her items will not be in his way. She will keep the tastefully packaged items at the front of the shelves and the uglier or embarrassing items in the cabinet. She knows that her boyfriend doesn’t share this excitement.

After many more trips, the lobby now empty, her boyfriend flops on the loveseat. She brings him a glass of water. A box has now been opened and she suddenly feels rejuvenated; she begins to organize her own kitchen. She unwraps a small stack of mismatched dinner plates, flattening the crumpled newspaper. Checking for electrical outlets, she places the kettle and toaster nearby and her teas in the cupboard above. They will migrate upwards as she stocks the kitchen with dry goods. Dishes will go on the other side of the sink and she knows that the drying rack will go on that side, too.

“What the hell, don’t you ever stop?” he calls, “Sit down with me for awhile, there’s plenty of time for that.”

He is an old hand at moving, so she joins him on the loveseat, wilting in the heat from his body. She sighs and takes off her shoes. The thin grey carpet under her steaming feet, hops with fleas.