I don’t look into their windows and assume they don’t look into mine. What are they going to see, anyway? A medium- sized, middle- aged woman rolling off her airbed and padding into the kitchen to shake oats into a pan, eat applesauce from the jar with a spoon as the porridge plaps quietly, alien craters opening and shutting on its surface.
I walk nude out of the bath and across the living room to fetch a towel. This room, the living room, contains a chair and an airbed and a brown paper sack with ‘clothes’ printed on its side in a design-y millennial font. And that’s it. I want to stay here- I might be able to stay here. I have two plants on my balcony, a tiny succulent and a half- dead tree in a stylish earthenware pot that someone left downstairs on top of the letterboxes, ‘I don’t want this, you have it’ style. I want to bring this plant back to life. I want to dampen its soil, watch tight buds unfurl on its branches. I want to grow things here, paint walls, hang pictures, learn more German, cook food for guests. A good friend has offered me a table and four chairs that I could place in front of the big south- facing windows just so. All I need to know is whether it’s safe to move them in.
I am meeting someone today and we’ll be having a conversation about whether I can stay, put my name on the next contract. I want that to be what happens next, so badly. I want to keep padding around my one medium- sized room with big south-facing windows, build a bed and move in a table and fill up the bookshelves. My barely used Godemiche dildo is sitting on the shelf now, curved head pointing coyly against the wall, like art. I want to move the rest of me into this perfect- sized studio flat, and make my life here, wandering around naked and not caring if anyone sees, displaying my beautiful secrets to visitors like art, bring myself back to life, like a half- dead plant.