We walk down the narrow , dim hallway lined with doors . One of the doors is open , pushed inward towards a yawn of darkness . The plaque beside the door reads 213 . My new apartment .
throat .
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“ You should find it quiet here ,” says the doorman . “ That ’ s good ,” I say , but a shiver creeps up my
I look behind me , certain that someone else is there . But apart from us , the hallway is empty . I imagine myself dropping my suitcase and bolting back down the stairs , out through the lobby , onto the cold , bright street .
“ No one will bother you here ,” says the young man , and the desire to flee , turned irrational , fades .
I take the key from the lock in the door and enter the apartment alone . I lock the door behind me , relieved that the door now separates me from the young man . I feel along the wall for a light switch . Finding none , I take out my phone to use as a flashlight , but the battery is dead . In the dark , I feel my way through the room , around the small low bed , to the pale indentation of the window . I pull back the heavy curtain , then let it fall closed again .
Our entire wall was made of windows in the studio apartment Henry and I shared . He hated closing the curtains , even when we slept . Last night , I woke to flashes of streetlights to find his burning arm draped over me . I was afraid to move , to wake him , but unable to fall back asleep with the light and noise from the street .
Henry liked the noise . He said it helped him rest . But not me . That noise bothered me even more than the light . Horns and sirens often yanked me from sleep . Living there , I was always tired .