Flat – no, apartment – hunting
I've started looking at flats.
No, apartments.
I went to see one last week. It was being let by a middle-aged Trinidadian who, in the right light, resembles at least one of my many uncles.
The flat – no, apartment – was cute. It was a thing that doesn't exist in the UK: a junior one-bedroom. It felt like a place I could relax in, where all my furniture would face the telly with ease, and where the large bay window would be a perfect perching spot. I could imagine cooking dinner in the tiny kitchenette, and drying my bras over the tub, and calling down to a friend, "just press the buzzer again!" I imagined inviting friends for dinner, and shooting the shit for hours after we were done eating. I imagined Skyping my sister in London, telling her about some internal or external drama. I imagined coming home from a date with a handsome man and maybe twirling before catching myself and remembering I do not reside inside a movie. But man, I could live a good life in that flat – no, apartment.
But after an adulthood of buying accommodation from others, I am afflicted with that peculiar renters' restlessness and I want to see what else is out there. New York is not so different to London, in the end.
"I already know what me and you could be, Michael, but I wonder if me and James might not make a better match. Or, at least, a more exciting one."
The great flat – no, apartment – I will live in eventually is called James, you see.
And I think I met James a few days later. It's slightly out of my price range, but I have always been good at convincing myself to love the things I want to love. I desire this flat – no, apartment – like I desire carbs: urgently, immediately, with vigour.
Come on, James. Don't let me down.