In the absence of music, I hum more.
He's a lean, mean furniture-moving machine, hefting tables, chairs and a futon without pausing for breath. Sort of like the Terminator, but instead of hailing from a post-apocalyptic future he works for a group that accepts donated furniture. He has no visible emotional expression but cheers us up considerably.
The day is long and hot, and the moving van is filling up with bags, boxes and bins. The experience is worthy of a song parody, and he gets started on one during his nth elevator trip.
The accumulated clutter was symbolic of baggage I needed (and still need) to get rid of.
It's happened again. Their relationship has gone down in flames.
I feel like an industrious rodent, hunched over tearing paper apart with my busy paws.
The shirts are all on the shelves in rippling textures and rainbow colors.