3:30AM

I’m not weird about having company, I write at 3:30AM having been awake and cleaning for about 90 minutes now. My headache is gone, and I lasted until 9PM before shuffling down the hall, snuggling into my many pillows and resting comfortably.

Chienne woke up at 1:00 or so, emerging from the covers at the foot of the bed to flap her ears around. She’d taken a bath last night in anticipation of our guests, so her jingly collar remained in the guest bathroom. She got up to wander around and it woke enough of my brain up to start to list all the tasks left to accomplish. I’m planning on working this morning before Rachel’s flight gets in, and neither of the guest beds were made.

Laundry, I thought sleepily, considering just getting up for a moment to put the last load in the dryer. And it’s garbage day – I need to make sure I get all the trash outside. Wouldn’t hurt to file those papers in the office. And I don’t use top sheets as a rule – I don’t remember washing the one for the guest room. The bathroom mirror was a little streaky – I should probably clean that again. Did I leave dishes in the kitchen sink?

Patting the side table for my glasses – I keep a pair on each side of the bed so they’re available regardless of my left/right decision – I pushed aside pillows, patted the dog who had recently returned, and headed out to the garage. I yawned as I carried the sheets to the office, deciding to make that bed while I was at it. Then the mental list kicked in and I wandered around the house, straightening, spritzing glass cleaner, finding more laundry to do, and collecting trash from anywhere I could think of.

Steve kicked over Chienne’s water when he was here last week. I smiled at him and offered a towel to dry his shoe as I apologized.

“Why do you keep it there?” He asked, pointing to its location in the center of the floor. I don’t have a dining room – my parents’ old table sits on one side of my fairly large kitchen. I’ve tucked the dog dishes next to the table, which happens to put them squarely in the center of the room. People don’t expect them to be there for some reason.

“It’s most convenient.” I said, looking down at them. “Steps from the sink so I can refill the water, and close to the pantry so I can fill the other up with kibble.”

He shook his head and I laughed. “Where would you put them?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Anywhere but there.” He offered, smiling as he finished mopping up the spill. “How about over in the corner next to her dog door?”

I shrugged. “I don’t kick them over.” I decided. “I know where they are.”

But after sweeping the floor this morning, I decided to tuck them away in the corner near all the plants. It seems like after nearly everyone who has visited as ended up with a wet foot, Chienne and I could adjust to a little change. Plus, I’m moving them back after my guests are all home again.

As I swept, I smiled over memories of the list we kept on the counter in undergrad. Many attempts were made to develop some cleaning schedule that was based on something other than who got grossed out first by the dirty kitchen. My tolerance depends on my mood, so I took what I think was my fair share of turns. Elle was probably the most frequent at cleaning, but she half-assed it. Rachel would clean for hours – everything was spotless when she was finished – but the very time consuming nature of her turns made them infrequent. So we were stuck making “subtle” comments about how I’d cleaned it last time. And didn’t you have someone over to cook dinner? It seemed like if you got dishes dirty, you could at least get them to the dishwasher. After you emptied it, of course, because that sucker was always full.

We’ve talked often since graduating that we didn’t appreciate it enough. Having our best friends in the world located right next door. Expecting people to knock on my door when it was closed because the very act of closing it indicated I was in a mood. And while I’m often upset in some way, it’s normally quite easy to bring me out of it. One of my girls would poke her head in the door, request entrance, ignore my sigh, and perch on the bed, beaming when I finally glanced over from working at my desk. I smile back when someone smiles at me, so I’d whine and complain for a little while, bask in the appropriate sympathy or outrage that was offered in return, and settle back into happiness.

We’d watch television together – Friends and Felicity most religiously. I have the complete series of both shows on DVD. The bakers rack in my kitchen came from that apartment, as did my little canvas drawer set in my bedroom. We picked out my first piece of art together before we had our first guest in our very own apartment junior year - it's now over my head as I sit on the loveseat. Rachel was on the trip to New Orleans when I bought my favorite watercolor that's on my kitchen wall next to the shelves that display Grandma's china.

It feels like a long time ago – being in college, living with them. Rachel and I were the closest for a year, so I notice the changes in her most vividly. It’s difficult to interact with someone I used to know completely – I could finish her sentences since we talked all the time, would send her email with any trivial detail when I was in one lab and she in another one across campus. We talked about anything and everything, but that changed. The drifting apart is fine – that happens. But our current relationship is more defined by my push, which makes me feel heavy with guilty regret. I fought like hell to keep her from the man she married. Talked and cajoled and offered sympathy and outrage in response to her stories. The sniffed with disapproval and walked away when she wouldn’t listen to what was clearly excellent advice. So my dear Rachel – the one I knew as well as I knew myself in college, all her lists of desirable qualities in a mate, her need for reassurance and love before she opened up, the way she took forever to get ready so you had to warn her hours before going out, then cling to patience because I can go anywhere with 30 minutes to prepare – is now someone different. And my pleas that she was supposed to do better – find someone nearly perfect who appreciated her – gradually changed to murmurs, then just to vague thoughts of deep regret when I watched this gorgeous light in her dim.

We all make choices, I think. It’s with age and some less than ideal choices of my own that I’ve curbed some of my judgmental impulses. It’s impossible to fully understand someone’s motivation – I sometimes fail to fully appreciate the basis for some of my own decisions. So I tried to understand, bit back rants against one of the few people in the world I really don’t like, and worked at being a friend on a different level. I was more confused than anything when Rachel sobbed on the phone last year, mourning the loss of closeness in our relationship.

“But it’s been gone for so long.” I said softly as she wept. “Don’t be sad. I’m still here. It’s just different.”

So I’m cleaning in the early morning hours so she can be suitably impressed with my life. She’s bringing her sister to guard against my little comments that sometimes slip out without my permission. We’ll view historical sites and she’ll talk about her job. I’ll drive her around based on my carefully constructed schedule of her requested tours, directions included. And I’ll once again consider, as I do each time I see her, that I can miss someone more when I’m with her than when I’m not. In my head, I can remember her with all the hope and promise that surrounded her in undergrad. And she me, I think. When my sighs over not finding anyone were more for dramatic effect, because certainly someone would come along. Now the sighs are less frequent because the fear is more real – I may end up alone. So I’d rather not discuss it.

Luckily, my immature desire to cling to what I loved about our past relationship is paired with a more thoughtful appreciation for who she now is. I love her and not knowing her so well keeps me from thinking I can identify what’s best for her. So I can listen to stories without so much outrage. I can offer gentle opinions rather than issuing demands for change. I’m less involved, which sounds terrible, but it hurts too badly otherwise.

We’ll have a good time. The dryer buzzed, so I’ll make the guest bed and grab an hour of sleep before getting ready for work. I’ll push back the memories of what we were, and leave myself open for what we are. Then I’ll console myself that I’m not all grown up yet because this is quite difficult. But eventually I’ll get there.