dirt footprint

Ted’s cousin has been dating his girlfriend for three months. They’ve lived together for two.

New York pushes you into people. It squishes you into subway cars so crowded I once spent most of a morning commute standing on one foot. Sidewalks are packed and grocery stores are tiny and you’re almost always brushing by someone.

When I was little I lived in a place too far from town to have cable. There was a dog and maybe some cats in the yard and ponies out back and trees and grass and a sandbox and a tire swing. Here, twenty-four apartments, an Irish bar, and a bagel place share the dirty footprint of this little building. Here, I pay loads for my tiny share of the earth, three stories below.

The most cost effective way to live here, or anywhere I suppose, is to get married, or at the very least shack-up, as the kids say. You can’t beat having two incomes but only needing room for one bed.

It had come up before, but never with a sense of schedule other than “future” or “later” or “one day”. ’Til now. It was breakdown of timing, not an invitation or plan, just a notification.

I’m already decorating in my head.


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