At noon, Tori lived with me. By close of business, she had keys to her new apartment, utilities connected, and she'd moved her car half a block down to sit outside her own door.
She was pretty excited.
I actually can't remember the last time I saw her this happy.
And, the place is darling. Great windows. Vanity area in the bathroom that I'd kill for. Plenty of closet space. And, most important, room on both sides to plant flowers.
So, the exciting day angle made sense.
But then, I was tempted to go with "Transitions."
They just signed the lease this afternoon, so of course they don't have much (read: anything) in the place.
Of course, they decided to stay there anyway. I got it.
I also remembered sleeping on the wood floor of a house in Indianapolis on New Year's Eve when my then-fiance and I first moved back in together after working in separate cities for two years, so I loaned them my air mattress.
Then, near 11 p.m., the door burst open. I was getting ready to go to bed, and it was raining so hard the dogs had refused to go out. Tori was soaked from stepping into a deep puddle as she ran through the courtyard and wearing her boyfriend's oversized sweatshirt. She dashed upstairs to get some clothes and her toothbrush and asked me to get her a few things from the kitchen.
Like cereal. And milk. And paper plates. And a couple of glasses. And bowls. And her iced mocha. And a couple of forks and spoons. Oh, and some pillow cases. I threw in a rag, some dish soap, some paper towels, and a small bag of ice for her coffee in the morning.
Sometimes, even abrupt change isn't all that abrupt.
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