There is much comfort to be had in the whiteness of new rentals. The smaller the apartment, the more crisp the walls feel. Even a low ceiling finds forgiveness in this: the whiteness opens in the light, letting in bounce and wrap around me and say, “Yes, this is your home. We’re so glad to see you.” Each towel and napkin holder, each plant growing from a mason jar look at home on the cracked Formica countertop or peeling window sill. You dust, so as to christen every surface and corner with your own piles and layers of dust.
You take a shower and notice the water pressure. This surely is the perfect water pressure. Here, temperature and ability to rinse out thick curls and comfort as the water taps its Morse Code on skin—all sensations are in homeostasis. You acknowledge all of them and think of the pleasure it will be to shower here—in this room with teal tiles and dark wooden doors!—every day. Your eyes have closed and you open them. There are no lights on in the small room, but the walls feel sunny. You are careful not to splash or spritz or spray them with the products lining the shelf by the toilet.
You go into the living room, which is also your study, which is also the bedroom. You sit on the couch, which is also your bed, and would watch TV if you had one. This would seem sad if someone was watching. But you are content. As you think this word, you realize that it is not in the passable, shrugging contentedness of the resigned. This is a full-hearted content. A wholeness that is made up, completely, of yourself.
In a minute, you could ride your bike to your fiancé’s favorite restaurants. This means that in less than five minutes, you could turn that bike around, ride back in the direction of your apartment, pass the apartment, pass the café where you sat with your fiancé twice a week for an entire summer, and land at your favorite bar. You do neither of these things, but remain staring at your bookshelf from your bed.
Meanwhile, as sitting five hours away, your fiancé stares at the bookcase across from her bed. She contemplates riding her bike to the café you once visited four times a week for over a year, but she works there and it would be miserable going alone. She also has no bike. This reminds her that she should call the landlord and have him put a door on the leaning garage. She has made this call before, when the bike pump got stolen. Then when the bike got stolen. And now when these bikes got stolen. She does not call.
Five hours apart, you think of each other.
moving in and out and on
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