Post by HADLEY DRAKE on Jan 26, 2023 23:07:13 GMT
Moving boxes? Check. Sore arms? Check. Beer in hand? Check.
Moving house was a pain.
A chimpanzee of slightly-above-average intelligence could do it with ease, which made it significantly more difficult for her.
Hadley sat on the floor of their (their!) new home, taking a break from her hauling duties to rifle through some of the boxes encircling her. A thinking man would have labeled things better. The type of person Hadley sometimes longed to be would have dutifully written helpful and organized notes on the boxes. Things like, “kitchen - open immediately” and “books - history - 879 BC to 100 AD,” maybe even a helpful little “living room TV setup” written neatly on the side. However, that was the type of person who got up at 5am to do sunrise yoga and drink purified water with herbs and fruits from mason jars. Hadley rolled out of bed and ate a morning (afternoon) pickle and, as such, was decidedly not the type to write anything useful on her boxes. No, hers just had “STUFF” scrawled haphazardly on the top. And that was if she was lucky. It made it difficult to find a spoon amongst the piles of things thrown into each box.
“Cool rock,” she muttered, taking a stone from the current box in hand before, unhelpfully, putting it right back in so she could inevitably grab it again on her next rifling. This box seemed, so far, to consist mostly of neat rocks, toy cars, pocket journals (originally for work-related note taking, but each one devolving into a place to stick cool beer bottle labels almost immediately), 3 kitchen knives, and a VHS tape of the 1999 women’s World Cup final match. She did not have a VHS player. All in all, incredibly important items. No spoon, though. Not even a fork. Please, she just wanted some cereal.
It wasn’t entirely her fault. Hadley only moved once as an adult. If she went anywhere to work for an extended time, she’d rent a place and live minimally, always intending to return to her home base at some point. When she collected things like cool rocks, it wasn’t with the thought that she might have to move it someday. How was she to know that one day she would find a lovely lad with which she would buy a nice little house with a lot of natural light and, honestly, some very fine wood floors. Or, maybe slats that looked like nifty wood floors. Whatever. It did the trick. The important part here is that they bought a house.
There was rustling from behind as a box was set down with care, which told her that it was not Sanjay. “Sparky said he needs you outside,” Dev said, pulling out the nickname she’d given Sanjay after watching him try to jury-rig something that resulted in a large zap and a screeching Jay. Dev enjoyed being a little shit and throwing around whatever nicknames they gave each other. Nothing was sacred. “Alright,” she wasn’t really paying attention, still digging through the box. “Oh! Hey bud,” she started, pulling the item she found earlier out again and holding it towards the boy. “Check out this cool rock!” Dev hinged at the hips and leaned forward to get a better look. He made an approving whistling sound, exclaimed “cool!” and spun on his heel to march back out of the room without another word. She would have to work on his passion for very neato rocks later.
All thoughts of rocks (and the missing spoons) left her mind as she made her way back to the moving van parked in front of the house and heard Sanjay’s high pitched struggle noises. She approached with amusement, which she didn’t bother hiding, as he wrestled with one of the heavier boxes. Hadley draped her arm across the top of the box, casually adding more weight. “Whatcha doin’, babe?”
TAG: SANJAY DAYAL
NOTES: i don't know what i'm doing
NOTES: i don't know what i'm doing