It's not the most glamorous job, he admits. Nor does it pay too well. But the hours are good, and he enjoys the work. Likes being invited into people's homes, entertains himself by noticing the half-opened boxes and which possessions were so important to be brought and opened first. Restrains a smile every time he's lead to a bedroom, an inside joke others wouldn't understand. He might be one of the few men in the world whose job took them to numerous women's bedrooms, and yet his wife has never doubted his fidelity. The only nights he's not in her bed, she can find him downstairs, fingers dancing across the keyboard, slave to his muses. One of hundreds of aspiring writers, except he doesn't care if he gets published or not. It's not about money, it's about the pleasure of watching a story stream out through your fingers and onto a screen. The phenomenal power of creating characters and a world for them to live in. This job pays enough to live on, and allows enough time for his wife and his writing. Plus it gives him access to a never-ending supply of inspiration.

He double-checks the address, and knocks on the door. It opens, revealing two expecting female faces. They see the large cardboard box he's carrying, and the older woman shows him into one of the bedrooms. In the back of his mind, he's already putting together a history for them. Are the two women roommates? Lovers? There's two bedrooms, but it doesn't mean they can't be closet lesbians, and keeping two rooms to hide their relationship. But he's more willing to bet mother/daughter - the woman showing him around seems to be in her late forties with several streaks of gray in her faded hair, and the girl sitting in the corner of the living room reading couldn't be north of twenty at most. Not to mention that their rooms are on opposite sides of the house - lovers like to stay together, relatives like to stay as far apart as possible. Plus, lesbians usually order the same size mattress, whereas the mother's bed is a queen and the daughter's is a twin. The kid looks rather tall despite her seated pose, and he wonders if she has to sleep in a fetal position, or if she lets her feet hang off the end of the bed. He glances around, taking in the small details. There are very few things around the apartment - no sleeping bags or air-mattresses or tables, only two chairs, and the obligatory sealed boxes, so he guesses that the women aren't living there quite yet. With a few directional suggestions from the mother, he performs his task with speed and dexterity, making two trips back to his car to get the materials.

The mother watches every move he makes with undisguised curiosity. "That goes up pretty quickly, doesn't it?" she complements.

He smiles at her; doesn't hurt to charm the customers. "It sure does when you do it every day." She chuckles, and he finishes up his work, cleaning up afterwards. The bed looks nice, if bare without sheets, but the way she wanted it positioned will let her look out the window at the stars each night. He's directed to the daughter's room, and repeats his task. First, putting together the frame work, then placing the box springs, and finally carting in the mattress. As he arranges the bed flush against the wall, he imagines the girl sleeping there every night, imagines what she might dream of, how many hours she might spend reading in bed. He wonders if she'll ever bring a boy home, if she'll have sex in this bed, if a child will ever be conceived on the fabric under his hands. He pictures her sick under the covers sipping soup, surprised with breakfast on her birthday, masturbating late at night. With a sigh, he retrieves his clipboard and gets the mother's signature. His gaze wanders while she signs, and the girl looks up once and smiles at him, before returning to her book. He takes the clipboard back and nods to them. "Have a nice day, and enjoy your new apartment, ladies."

"Thanks." Crone and Maiden reply in chorus and he leaves, shutting the door behind him. He gets in his truck and drives away. Tonight he'll write a story about them and the rivalry between generations, about the dolls in the mother's room and the television in the daughter's. He'll create their personalities and quirks and lovers, and he'll make them immortal, if only in the text document on his hard drive. His muse has taken on the form of a quiet young woman sitting in the corner, with green streaks in her dark brown hair, and he'll write of what her future could be like.

~end~