The Best is Yet to Come

Thirty: Noah

"This sucks balls." I hear Chris moan.

I spray the coffee table generously and wipe it down, but pause to glance over at my friend. He's bent over, a scowl tattooed on his face. A black trash bag is clenched in his left fist, the other picking up various pieces of trash off the living room floor. His overgrown hair aggravates his face, red locks falling into his eyes every time he bends at the waist. I can't help but chuckle, he reminds me of an eight year old complaining about chores.

"This is good for us." I tell him. "I can't wait to find out what color the carpet is." I joke and Chris shoots me a glare.

"Oh, ha ha." He mocks, and I feel the corners of my lips turn up. Chris has his own set of issues, but I can always count on him to make me smile. Hilarious and kind, he's the nicest guy I know.

Checking my watch, I'm relieved that it's still morning. But then I scowl when I see we've only been at this for an hour. It feels so much longer than that. I hear a groan come out of Chris from the corner of the room.

"Stop your bitching." I laugh, and I get a louder moan in response. "I'm gonna go start with the kitchen." I tell him, and I place down the rag and bottle I was holding. I'm hoping some peace and quiet might help the time go faster. Better yet, I turn and head towards my bedroom to grab my headphones. Upbeat music never fails to provide motivation.

Three and a half hours later, including the many cleaning breaks demanded by Chris, the house is passable. The carpet in the living room is the worst- honestly, it needs to be replaced at this point- but the apartment smells much better and judging by the ache in my arm, the kitchen better be sparkling.

In the end, I didn't have to wrestle Chris into the shower like I had anticipated. After a long day of sweat and cleaning products, I was thankful even Chris could admit he smelled terrible. While I wait for him to be done in the bathroom, I strategically place air freshers around the room, placing several in the living room and kitchen. Finished, I take a step back, resting my hands on my hips to admire our handiwork. I'm not as good as Harriet, the housekeeper my mom had hired when I was a boy, but I think given the circumstances, even she would be proud of what we've accomplished today. Satisfied, I walk into my bedroom to start getting ready for Emma's arrival.