1 A Hand Up

Light slipped through the slits of the blinds, drawing stripes on his languid body. The room was too illuminated for a comfortable sleep, but too dark for a proper habitat. His clothes were uncomfortable, designed for work not for life. He flipped open his laptop, and his television show resumed. He was not closely engaged.
***
Tom threw open his bedroom door. He shucked his dress shirt and pants and slid into his basketball shorts and a t-shirt. With gusto, he yanked the blinds up, letting sunlight pour into the room. He tossed his clothes into the bin, and slipped on his high tops. He hummed as he laced them tightly.
***
Minutes dilated into hours. He reached out his hand to stop his laptop. His two-dimensional companions froze, wide smiles plastered on their faces. He stretched his muscles and looked up to the ceiling. He removed his belt and felt the indentation it had made in his skin. He let his eyes wander across his near-dark room. Shipping boxes dominated the space, towering over him, specters of a chore he didn’t have the energy to complete.
***
Tom did stretches and warm up drills across his floor. Between the sunlight and the white painted walls, the room projected an aura of spaciousness. As he completed his loosening drills, he went to his closet and extricated his basketball, ignoring the pleas for attention from the last of the shipping boxes. He had probably moved a few too many things. He gripped the ball tightly and spun it in his hands, happily discovering it was still properly inflated. He pretended to practice his handles, but avoided dribbling inside the apartment. He spun and juked his way to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, snagged a water bottle, and filled it to the brim.
***
He shut his laptop and summoned the energy to rise from his bed. He plodded to his refrigerator and rummaged through its contents, settling on a piece of pizza that had found its way to the back. He opened his cupboard and growled at its barrenness. Following a superficial look to a sink full of dishes, he put the pizza directly in the microwave and heated it. He ate the aged pizza and trudged back to his room.
The light from the blinds had dissipated. He glanced at his phone: 7:40. Shaking his head, he slid into bed under his blankets. He lay with his eyes closed but his mind wide awake. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, but was probably minutes before abandoning his hope of sleep. He flipped open his laptop and resumed his show. His flat companions broke from their immobility and reached out to hold each other’s hands. With love-sick eyes, they looked to the stars. “I hope things never change, Marie,” the man in the cowboy hat said with a sigh.
“I do,” he said slamming his laptop shut.
***
The doorbell rang. Tom jogged to the door and flung it open. “Hey, Tom! Good to see you!” Jake said with a warm smile. “Ready to go?”
“For sure. I’ve been working on my shot,” Tom said, pulling up into an imitation jump shot.
“I’ll hit you when you’re open,” Jake said with a sly grin.
Tom hopped into the passenger seat of Jake’s car.
“How’s the unpacking going?” Jake asked as his car roared to life.
“Good, just a few boxes left. I hid them in the closet,” Tom said with a laugh.
“You been adjusting ok? I know it’s hard moving to a new place.”
“Yeah,” Tom smiled. “It’s starting to feel like home.”