You know how people sometimes say if a certain thing was a real person, they’d marry it? Well. If my apartment was a person, I’d marry it.
It only makes sense.
I love how I come home to it and it has that specific smell, not good or bad, but just a smell that exists nowhere in the world, except here. I like how the sun casts long, yellow shapes through my blinds in the morning, like it wants to reach out with its golden fingers and get a hold of me. It never does, though, because my room faces north. I like how I once discovered a secret hole in the wall beside my bed after I’ve been sleeping there every night, for a year. Turns out it is a magnificent place to store things that you don’t want anyone to find. Not that I have any that needs hiding (most of the time). I love how my apartment has two balconies, and when guests come I show them the smaller one first, wait a minute so they go on and on about how amazing it is (I let them for a while because it is good for my apartment ego), then I tell them there’s a bigger one on the other side and watch them flip. I even like how all of the drains are clogged 70% of the time, because then I have to clean them and there is no greater pleasure in life than watching water in your shower form that cute little vortex while circling down the drain after it’s been slowly merely seeping down for weeks. I like how the shower knobs are reversed so you have to open the cold one to get hot water and vice versa. It remembers me of the first week we lived in the flat, not showering for a week because “there was no hot water” and washing ourselves with a wet cloth and boiled water in the sink. I like how our front door now closes completely (and stays that way) and you don’t even have to lock it to stay closed. It reminds me of how effortlessly He once fixed it (and looked extremely sexy doing so. What’s it about men and fixing things?) I like how I know every noise the apartment or the people in it make, that I can just lay in my bed and listen to the day unveiling, because it feels like I’m there (and yes, I hear everything because my room had only thin glass door which I had to cover with a Doctor Who poster to keep people from having a clear view of naked me in the morning, but hey, you learn to love that as well). I especially adore my room, the sanctuary from the world where everything makes sense. The posters, the paintings (bad, but people that I love made them, so I don’t really care), the avocado plants in their glasses of water, my bed with a broken plank (ironically not because of crazy wild sex, as my dad is absolutely sure), the couch that I bought myself and then went broke for two months because of it, the curtains that my mom bought me and made me cry the first time I put them on, the cool touch-light on my nightstand, the shelves of books that carry way more than they were meant to, all the plants that are somehow still alive (even if I sometimes forget about them for a week or two).
It is a mighty love story of us, one that uses creaking floorboards instead of love songs and leaking shower heads instead of late night calls before bed.
I’m extremely happy in my relationship, thank you very much.
(Even if the light bulb in the kitchen burnt out this morning and I had to eat my cereal in the dark, the only source of light being a street lamp that was somehow still on at 7am in the morning).
At least I have something to always come home to, even if that something has a leaky faucet.