There’s a bounce in my step as I go downstairs to the storage space. It’s time to inventory all the pieces we have left after our last market, and despite how boring that might sound, I’m actually looking forward to touching every piece, entering it into the database I created, creating the pivot tables that show what pieces Katie needs to make for our next market, talking to Katie about what I learned - all the work that I can do that helps my wife do her work.
And were I doing it for somebody else, I might find it less interesting, or meaningful, but to do it for us makes it seem... “fun" isn’t the right word, but “nourishing” might be close.
So when I get to the storage locker I spend several disappointed minutes looking blankly at my key ring, where the key to the lock on the door is supposed to be, because the key is currently on my bedside table back in Brooklyn, where I left it, and not here with me, in midtown Manhattan, where it might actually do somebody some goddamn good.
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