Moving is Hell

Lynn hated moving. She hated the fake chumminess exuded by the soulless property owners. She hated the beating-the-crowd-to-the-first-showing anxiety. She hated the anticipation that drained all the joy from her life and her boyfriend’s and even their dog’s. She hated looking at places devoid of personality, small for a Hobbit, unflinchingly ugly, with views of barbed wire and stucco unwashed for decades. She hated waiting for the agent to call her and tell her about her credit rating, her boyfriend’s, her dog’s. She hated the low level but ubiquitous panic that rose and fell in her mind like skin-flaying siroccos. She hated the sharp churning in her stomach that was a constant reminder of their ordeal. She hated drinking more, having a cigarette, and eating fast food to keep from having too many groceries. She hated knowing that it caused her boyfriend to be taciturn. She hated the silent judgment. When the agency called and offered her the worst bargain, she would gladly take it. It would be their new home. And it beat the alternative.