the money pit

moving day poured rain. i made two 120-mile round trips, only one of which involved much traffic. i am on the third floor, or 6 staircases of book-box-carrying bliss. the carpets were supposed to be cleaned but they weren't (presumably that's being done right this moment); the tap was supposed to be fixed but wasn't (next tuesday, after i work a 15-hr graveyard shift; it involves turning off the water to the entire building); my key got stuck in the door (the landlord had to jimmy it out; luckily, it took some effort from him as well); and there are 2 fairly impressive leaks in the bedroom. there is a bucket filling with vile brown water under one; someone placed a folded paper bag under the other one, but in the short time i was there yesterday it grew substantial enough to warrant a cocktail shaker instead. there was a funny/depressing instant where i found myself standing in the bedroom, eyes moving back and forth between the drips, undoubtedly with a disbelieving/moronic expression. "you won't want to move much furniture in here until we get the leaks fixed" my landlord said jovially. there is a layer of gunge beside the oven, a filthy dustpan with human hairs stuck to it, and a solitary word from magnetic poetry stuck to the fridge. the word is "smear." of course i am leaving it there.
litany of shit (shitany?) aside, i quite dig the place. there is a built-in dimmer in the main room. i turned it to barely-amber and listened to the rain. across the street i can see television screens and empty stairwells. downtown was cauled in mist. i have a good feeling about it. hopefully tonight i'll actually be able to sleep there.
went to find a shower curtain and en route spoke with tony. it ended up being a very positive call. bittersweet- i have always detested that word, but it ably summarizes how everything feels right now. it can be so easy with us. i wish it could have been like that more consistently. i cannot fully process the impact of everything that's happened; when i start to, i feel absolute panic and grief. 'one day at a time' he said last night. 'one minute at a time' i replied. when i walked into the store i was still crying and surreptitiously wiping snot on my sweater. i can smirk about it now, at the humanity, how no one else would probably ever tolerate either one of us, how comforting and sane it is to still be able, for however brief a time, to be friends.