How Happy to Be
“Mine is the ground-floor apartment of a divided west-end Victorian that’s peeling and weeping from leaks on the outside and renovated to tragic blandness on the inside. The Italian landlords boarded up the fireplace and put linoleum over the floors for easy washing, stripped the cornices and pediments, and replaced the bay windows with brown vinyl frames. The Ex lifted the plastic and sanded the hardwood, opened the unworking fireplace so we could look at its green tiles, keep warm by its prett...iness, but the apartment is still blank.
A cat might fill it up, but buying a cat is like lying down on a beach towel in a big Iraqi minefield and saying, Okay, universe, I do not care any more. Sometimes I think about it, about opening the door to my apartment and seeing a little brown fluffy face and that’s cool for a moment, but then suddenly it’s fifteen years down the road and the small brown face is as old and puckered as mine, peering up at me as I sit on my couch eating beans out of a can and watching Entertainment Tonight.MoreLess
A cat might fill it up, but buying a cat is like lying down on a beach towel in a big Iraqi minefield and saying, Okay, universe, I do not care any more. Sometimes I think about it, about opening the door to my apartment and seeing a little brown fluffy face and that’s cool for a moment, but then suddenly it’s fifteen years down the road and the small brown face is as old and puckered as mine, peering up at me as I sit on my couch eating beans out of a can and watching Entertainment Tonight.MoreLess
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