I’m fucking—mortified, I said, almost in tears. It was the truth. They got to work. Each taking a corner of a room. Except the little boy, whom Diana placed on my bed with an injunction to play with his iPad. Tig blasting Swedish pop on Thom’s Bluetooth speaker, dancing with the vacuum Diana brought over. Years later I can look back on that moment and see it as the act of devotion it was, to pick up somebody’s disgusting mess and dispense with it. The kind of thing my parents would have done for me. That I would do for those I love most. In that moment, though, it felt like someone had lifted
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