I’m due a favor of my roommate in being here, I think, with no reason other to be hanging artwork in a gallery. Perhaps the tallest guy here, I’ve been tasked with the actual hanging of pieces in the front room. The others with me hold awkward, protruding collages while I make sure the hooks are in place. I must have been getting behind because I hear a labored “shit!” next to me.

Arms shaking, and with exertion at his cheeks, he threatens to tip with the heavy wood compilation. I rush him, stabilizing the extra weight at the top, and my chest can feel the straining of his shoulders in front of me. Together, tenuously, we guide it, eventually working it onto the steel cables.

I don’t move quickly enough, but in front of me he’s ready to get away from the thing and I can smell the mint in his shampoo as he backs up. There’s the awkward ‘whoops’ and then the vibration of adrenaline that kicks in as he turns with appreciation. Matched with a sincere smile, he extends a hand I’m already hoping to shake.