Moving Day #2 Ends on a Sour Note

It’s 1 am. Sure, we’ve taken a long dinner break. Theoretically, I should be feeling frisky. We haven’t put that many hours in, even though my day started with picking up the SUV (!) at 8 am. Realistically, I’m just fucking tired, like tired is some kind of virus that attacks every cell of the body.

So yeah, it’s 1 am. One more load to go after I take in the last armful, trailing breadmaker cord and curtains. My Beard waits by the car. I walk out, put my hand in my pocket. And feel nothing. No key. No key.

"Umm, did I give you the keys?"

No. No. No. Scrabble through wet leaves, watch frost crystallize on chrysanthemums, call the tow truck, scrabble and search some more.

2 am. The tow truck arrives. Big guy with long hair pulled back into a ponytail and frizzing around his face. Doesn’t have a flashlight, but does have a shockingly large case of plumber’s crack. Bye car, bye.

There is nothing like watching your SUV disappear into a late black night while being leered at by a Halloween reveler in a mirrored blazer.