Daniel is snoring.

I grab my pillow and stomp to the den, pull out the couch. Lie there wrapped in a blanket, too hot, too stuffy, the streetlights blazing through the blinds.

On my side. On my back. I turn on my phone and glaze over for a half hour of vegetative reading.

Dinner with Alison. "See you in the Rockies!" she says, as she's leaving. Her hug soft and warm. We're going to be living in the same town.

We're accepting offers on our townhouse tomorrow. I'm scared that we won't get any. I'm scared that I'll be a prisoner here for longer, unable to cook for fear of messing up the kitchen. Unable to shower because I don't have the energy to wipe all of the water off of the tiles afterwards. I don't even brush my hair - that'd mean that I'd have to sweep again.

My heart pounding. I just want time to fast forward by a month, to when this is all over, to when I wake up and the mountains are right there and the air is resinous and the aspen leaves are quivering.

A bottle collector rattles past on the street below.