Last night Laurel and I cleaned our office. Known in landlord terms as the second bedroom, the home office had turned into a clumsy storage room, unused furniture and bags and boxes lining the perimeter, a closet full of hatboxes and baseball cards from 1974. Old phones. Old stereos. Old Discmen. The last remnants of many bad ideas and a few good ones.
Actually, we began to clean our office. There's still a lot to do. The closet is done, much of it purged to trash bins and alley folk. The ugly work starts tonight. The demolding of windowsills. The vacuuming of dust off of literary novels of the late nineties. The rearranging of the furniture that made the cut. The argument over the ugly rug, the multicolored runner that I wish to banish forever. And dust and cat hair everywhere the eye can see, before a linty squint turns into an April sneeze. But, in 12 hours, it will be a room again.
I deserve some kind of commendation for not using the word detritus in the preceding two paragraphs, don't I?
There's a stillness in my workplace today. The loud one is nowhere to be heard. The other one's allergies aren't acting up today. The cubicles are filled with the studious and the collegial. It's a good day.
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