We stopped at the mall and had beers at the Rainforest Café while we considered refrigerators, washers and dryers from three reputable vendors. We crunched the numbers into formulas that I remembered from Mrs. Russell in the 7th grade. First, the numbers were everything, then nothing. Sturdy doors were everything. Then numbers, then doors, then capacity, then numbers were everything all together factored by pie-shaped percentages based on priority. Pie shaped like wedges, and not half moons. Everything.
Amongst all the families enjoying their 20 dollar hamburgers, and in front of the attentive safari-khakied bartendress, I lost it. The stupid-ass-stuffed lemers flirted with plastic tucans in the rafters. The fake rainstorm started up, and then the phony thunder, and then flashing lights flickered to simulate lightening, and that’s when I lost it.
It wasn’t an epiphany, because I knew it would consume us. I didn’t really understand the extent: that the house is just almost as big as we are, and I can’t really visualize the end of it. It’s all we talk about, read about, work on, and consider. It’s alpha and it’s omega. Sometimes, I look up to make sure that I can still concentrate on Chris’ face in the dust cloud, and that he can still focus on mine through the safety goggles, and then I go back to my caulk, and he to his popcorn ceiling.
'Bubba,' I whisper. 'I'm moving to the country'
'Great. You've done everything else.'
‘no one carestohear, about your hardwood floors’ -Luna
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