Move Therapy

I bought an antique desk on Nextdoor over the weekend and last night Bevan and I drove the half mile from our house to Duboce Triangle to pick it up. Upon our arrival we discovered that the desk, a squat, chartreuse tank measuring four feet wide by two and a half feet deep, was stationed on the seller’s second-floor back patio that was accessible only by way of a narrow, low-ceilinged alleyway. It was during the hauling of said desk through said alleyway that the following conversation took place.

Me: Lower your end, Bevan! I can’t lift mine any higher!

Bevan: I’m trying, Corey! This thing’s heavy!

The Seller: Do you guys need some help?

Me (straining out a smile): Nope, all good! I said lower it, Bevan! Jesus Christ!

Bevan: Thanks for the offer though! You wanna do it yourself, Corey? I’m more than happy to let you try!

The Seller: How long have you two been together?

Me: A trillion millenniums. Tilt it to the right, Bevan!

Bevan: Seven and a half years. I am tilting it to the right, Corey!

The Seller: Do you live in the neighborhood?

Me: In the Castro. Dammit Bevan, watch the corner!

Bevan: Just above the flag. You watch the corner, Corey!

The Seller: That’s close to my office.

Me: Neat! Ow, Bevan! You could have told me there was a pipe behind me!

Bevan: What do you do for work? I would have, Corey, if you weren’t pulling so damn hard!

The Seller: I’m a therapist.

Me: Great! Walk faster, Bevan!

Bevan: A worthy profession! Walk slower, Corey!

The Seller: A couples therapist.

Me: Oh, neat. Lookin’ strong, B! Keep it up!

Bevan: Therapy is very important. Doin’ great, Core!