There were things that were hard for her like changing plans, changing her furniture, changing any type of pattern, regularity, or system she had. Change in general was an inconvenience, but she did it. Did Bethy sometimes come off as rigid and demanding, probably. Did she give a shit, no. Bethy always made sure to cross her t’s and dot her i’s when it came to scheduling. She had a calendar for herself, for her boyfriend, for work, and at least six notepads in rotation each with a general subject or specific area covered. There was her work notebooks (one for shortlist tasks, tracking her food/water intake, and noting her hours for her daily log; the other for meeting notes, long term projects, and tasks assigned to her from her boss), the was her purse notebook (for everything lists), the one by her bed (to capture her dreams), the one on the hallway table (to leave instructions for whomever was watching her home while she was away), and the one on the kitchen table (which was her financial book). Then there was the memo app in her phone where she kept anything that needed to be written down when she wasn’t near a notebook or was not specific enough to be put into a notebook. Bethy liked structure and organization almost as much as she loved notebooks.
Matilda sat at her blue wooden desk. The one she had refurbished from old pallets and old shelves she recycled herself. The blue was intentionally bright and bold, but worn to revel most of the stained, darker pallet wood. She looked out the window which her desk faced. The woods behind her house were illuminated by the sunlight reflecting from the snow they had gotten the night before. She lifted herself slightly off her seat, leaned forward and looked out the window down toward the ground. The outdoor furniture was lightly covered with snow in such a way it made Matilda think of sugar dusted cookies. For the most part the patio was snowless. Matilda thought of how cold the metal furniture and snow would feel pressing against her legs and back. At the very least it would feel good, even if it didn’t calm her down.
Hilda felt drawn to the tricks of the house’s coloring. She would have felt generally better and more drawn if the lights were on, or if she knew the realtor was already here. Hilda ran her eyes down the block once more, there was one car somewhat close to them, but it was parked on the far side of the bend in the road. Seemingly the car belong to a house further down the block, past the clusters of red and orange fallen leaves.