A claw-foot bathtub.
It's funny how you can pinpoint the most arbitrary thing that makes
someone else's apartment, with papers and underwear and makeup strewn all
about, your very own perfect place.
How when you visit other larger apartments, with more windows
and hardwood floors, you take one look at their cheap, shallow blue
bathtubs and know that you couldn't possibly live there for even one minute.
In my current apartment, it was the expertly tiled kitchen floor.
And the dimmer-switched lights.
And at 2223 Hall Place, it was that perfect claw-foot bathtub. Tears
nearly welled in my eyes as I rounded the corner. Laine checked
for hydraulic-like water pressure as I just stood and worshipped from the doorway.
And in a city five hundred miles away from almost all my belongings and everything
and everyone familiar, I knew that I was home.
Where are you moving to?
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