#ayalaa

After weeks of avoiding it, Holland had finally started the process of cleaning out the old Mitchell house. It was big, and unkempt, and a hell of a lot of work, but looking at her progress at the end of every day was unimaginably satisfying. Holland had made it through the upstairs closets, the bedrooms, the kitchen -- her most recent project had been her father’s study. In the process, Holland had collected boxes upon boxes upon boxes of old music to take back to her rental. She had CDs, vinyls, cassette tapes, and eight tracks and sheet music -- stacks inches high of sheet music, enough to take up her half of her rental’s living room. 

It would be quite the process to listen through it all -- check what was in good quality, what was worth saving -- and Holland knew just the person to sit with while she did it. 

When Ayala arrived, Holland welcomed her in with a big, over-zealous hug. It had been so fucking long since she’d spent quality time with the woman -- not since Ayala had left New York over a year ago.  It felt so nice and normal, a good balance between her old life and her new. 

“Hey babe,” she said, finally letting the woman go in favour of closing the door behind her. “Come in. I’m sorry it’s a fucking mess in here, I’ve got so much crap to sort through still. Do you want a beer?”