This week, E and I have returned from our trip upstate and are suffering from a case of the post-vacation blues. I suppose that staying in a millionaire’s summer cabin with floor-to-ceiling window views of the forest and our own private lake may have gone to our heads. When we stepped back inside our one-window Brooklyn apartment – with its ventilation system that backs straight onto next door’s bathroom and delivers the sounds and smells of said bathroom straight into our bedroom; its nine-to-five building works directly outside; its cat hair-covered amenities and its oven backing onto where we sleep – I couldn’t help but feel a little deflated.
“Do you think our apartment might be a bit… depressing?” I ventured, as I picked my way over the bag of cat litter and past the half-shredded shower curtain to the toilet.
“Not really,” said E, plunking himself down on an old sofa cushion we found on the street and refashioned as a seating area by balancing it on top of our laundry basket. He’s an optimist, but he didn’t exactly say it with conviction.
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