Nine small wins from making a home alone.
The lighter pack. Furniture you fought, plants you almost killed, the night you stood in the middle of your own apartment in socks and noticed it was yours.
The chair took three hours and one almost-cry.
The instructions were in a kind of English I will never speak. An extra screw at the end—either fine or catastrophic. The chair stands. I sit in it; it holds me. I made a place to sit out of a flat box and some shouting. I keep the leftover screw in a drawer that has become a museum of leftover screws. The chair is mine. It is, somehow, slightly crooked. That feels right.
I bought six plants when I moved in.
One is left. Her name is Greg, for unclear reasons. She is twice the size she was, which is suspicious — I have killed four plants in three years. The other five are under the sink, in pots, in a row, like a quiet graveyard I haven't dealt with. Greg sits in the good window. She has earned the good window. I water her on Sundays. I talk to her on Wednesdays. She has never once complained, which is more than I can say for the other five.
She came over.
I gave the five-minute tour, which is too long for an apartment this size. I narrated every corner. "I bought this rug at the place. This used to face the other wall. This light is on a dimmer that mostly works." She nodded and smiled. We sat down. She said it felt like me. I will think about this for weeks. I show her the chair. I tell her about the screw. She gets it.
I organized the junk drawer.
It took ninety minutes, and I had been avoiding it for nineteen months. Four pairs of half-dead headphones, a single AAA battery, three rubber bands, a receipt from a year I no longer live in, a tiny screwdriver I don't remember acquiring, and the spare key to an apartment I no longer rent. I've thrown almost nothing out. I have, however, put it all in small clear boxes. The drawer now opens with intention. It will be a mess again by spring. I'm okay with that.
I hung the print today.
I bought it eight months ago. The proper hammer was in the proper place, surprising both me and the hammer. I held it up to the wall four times, marked it with pencil, and missed the stud anyway. The print is on the wall. It is, against any kind of level, slightly tilted. I'm going to leave it. It looks better tilted. The wall looks like someone lives here on purpose. The wall looks like me.
Tonight I made a real dinner.
Plated on a real plate. I lit a candle for no reason—for myself, I guess, which is the reason. I sat at the table instead of standing at the counter. I ate slowly. Wine in a glass meant for wine. No phone on the table. The chair held me. The candle did its job. The food was, honestly, fine. The act of doing it was, somehow, dinner.
I fell asleep on the couch with my contacts in.
Woke up at 3:14am with a crick in my neck and my mouth tasting of regret. Drank an entire glass of water standing at the sink. Took my contacts out with the seriousness of a small medical procedure. I made a deal with myself: this will not happen again. It will happen again. I climbed into bed and discovered the bed is a wholly different country. I should visit more often.
I bought the lamp.
I'd been looking at it for weeks. Carried it home from the train, the box making me look like a person with a problem. I plugged it in. The light is warm—warmer than expected. The corner that was nothing is now a place. I sit in the corner with a book I won't read past page three. The light is doing its job. The corner is doing its job. I am doing my job, which is sitting in the corner.
Standing in the middle of the apartment at midnight, in socks, looking around for no reason.
The lamp is on. The chair is in its place. Greg the plant is alive. The print is slightly tilted. The drawer closes. Some took years, some took an hour. I will go to bed shortly. I just wanted to stand here and notice that this is mine. I'll let it be a long minute. The radiator clicks. The fridge hums. I'm home.