Our last night in the apartment is a Friday.
We are not sad about it exactly. Neither of us is a person who does sentiment for its own sake. But there is something in the air of the evening that both of us feel and neither of us names, the specific weight of a place that held something important becoming a place that held something important.
We do not pack properly.
We pack the way people pack when they keep getting distracted by each other, one box filled and then someone says something and the tape gun gets put down and twenty minutes disappear pleasantly and then back to another box.
Rhys wraps books. I wrap kitchen things. Music plays from his phone on the counter and at some point he pulls me away from the bubble wrap and into the middle of the half-packed living room a
