To say that Kate is on a mission would be an understatement.
She's a force, today, as she tackles her latest project: fitting a new DIY bookshelf in Bill's living room.
It's gorgeous — or will be, once she puts it together — all rich, warm wood, clean lines, and glass doors.
She just has to do a little re-arranging, so it'll actually fit along the wall she's chosen.
- - - - -
The Front Door swings open an inch, then two.
"Oh, come on."
Another inch, and the plaid arm of a checkered couch becomes visible.
From the other side of the door, Kate gives the piece of furniture one more shove into the hall; half the sofa slides across the bar's threshold.
None the wiser, she turns around to survey how much space she just created to work with, swiping at her sweat-damp forehead with the back of her hand.
An indignant squeak cuts her victory short.
Surprised, she turns to face the hall, and sees Milliways, instead.
"You have got to be kidding me," she all but groans. With a resigned sigh, she grabs the couch, and tugs.
"Now you're really just messing with me," she mutters under her breath, fighting the urge to curse the Landlord.
[ papering over the cracks ]God, she's tired today.
She pushes herself harder on her morning run, tacking on an extra half-mile, then another for good measure.
(The more she works out, the more energy she'll have, she reminds herself with every punishing stride.)
By the time she makes it back to the house, there's a stitch behind her ribs and her knees have turned to oatmeal.
Should've eaten something, she thinks as she fumbles with the back door.
The house is quiet when she leans against the kitchen counter, sheened with sweat and shivering. Nausea washes through her, and she closes her eyes and breathes deep.
Bill will be up soon; she needs to make coffee and jumpstart breakfast.
She grips the edge of the counter with one hand, flipping on the faucet with the other.
The sound of running water fills her ears, fading to mute as her vision tunnels and the sink yellows at its edges.