The Thing I Agreed To Before I Saw It

January sixteenth. My neighbor knocked at around two in the afternoon and asked if I had twenty minutes. I said yes, because it was Wednesday and I had nowhere to be, and because saying no to a neighbor when you have no good reason felt worse than whatever twenty minutes would turn out to be.

The thing was a bookshelf. Solid oak. From a sidewalk free pile two blocks away, which she had somehow gotten into the building lobby but could not get upstairs alone. Two flights. The stairwell in this building is the width of one person plus a bag of groceries. I pushed from below and she pulled from above and at one point we had to rotate the shelf on a landing in a way that required both of us to go completely still and think. There was a moment on the second flight where I genuinely questioned my spatial reasoning. We got it there.

mid-haul. this is where I reconsidered everything.

It is now standing in her apartment, slightly crooked against the wall between the window and the door, and she is going to put plants on it probably. I told her it looked great. It does look great. My arms are having a different opinion about the afternoon, but they'll get over it.

she's upright. good enough.

I've been thinking lately about small favors, the ones you say yes to before you know what they are, and how most of the time they turn out fine, or at least fine enough that you don't regret the yes. This was fine. I got home at three-thirty, made tea, and sat on the couch for a while doing nothing, which felt completely earned. Wednesday well spent, I think.