The Mover Who Came Back

The move was supposed to be done at four. At six he was still there, thirty-five, tank top, a body assembled for lifting other people's lives. I was thirty-three and out of beer and excuses.

He left. An hour later he knocked. “Forgot a box,” he said. There was no box. We both looked at the empty hallway like it might invent one.

“There's no box,” I said.

“I know.” He waited. I opened the door wider.

We did not pretend about furniture. He kissed me in the new living room that still smelled like cardboard. His hands were taped at one knuckle. I wanted them on me more than I wanted the apartment to be finished.

The mattress was on the floor. He laid me out and took his time, which felt filthy after a day of efficiency. When I said I wanted him he nodded like a man accepting a second job. He opened me, pushed in, and the new place acquired its first real memory: his weight, my mouth on his shoulder, the slap of skin in an unfurnished room.

I came with my heels on his back. He followed, shaking, laughing once at the echo.

After, he said, “If you find that box, don't call dispatch. Call me.” I still have not found the box. I have his number. The couch is level. The rest of the house is not.