She has decided to dust the shelves. On the north wall of the cramped room we share together stands a shelving unit attached to the wall with adjustable shelves of varying width. Upon these shelves she keeps memorabilia, knickknacks, and novels that range from Dickens to Oates. The top shelf is dedicated to several small boxes, in which she hides all the memories she wishes to keep for herself. The second shelf is almost a memorial to the life and death of James Dean. The next shelf, one of the narrowest, houses several pictures of myself and her. From that point down rests all the literature that has made a difference in her life.

She took every item off the shelves and wiped them down with a windex soaked rag. She decided to rearrange the shelves since she had already removed what was resting upon them. She attempted various positions of arrangement; from a complex asymmetric layout to one with predictable symmetry. After adjusting and readjusting based upon the whims of her gut, she ended up with the exact arrangement that she was trying to change.

"I don't know, I'm not used to it," she said with a hint of triumph in her voice. I hadn't the heart to disappoint her, "babe, it looks great," I replied with my eyes glued to my book.

She wasn't pleased, but my despondent attitude was in line with expectations; anything more or less would have been met with either doubt or derision accordingly. She was still pleased with the idea of change even if it never materialized.