My boyfriend and I took a walk to see his new place. He and his two roommates are moving out of their English basement into a row home in May. It’s three stories on a sleepy street. There’ll be ample space, ample light, ample bathrooms for all. Selfishly, I’m very pleased. We stood on the curb and marveled at the potential.
Who knows how long the pandemic will last? Life is now lived indoors. An English basement is no longer just an English basement. Space—even to say the word—feels like a guilty pleasure. Like a luxury. This row home is a fiefdom to protect; a castle to moat; a frontier to homestead.
I looked upon this kingdom and imagined. I imagined my face creams not cluttering the shared bathroom sink. I imagined not hearing when everyone pees. I imagined not knowing if anyone was playing, and losing at, FIFA when I walked through the front door. I imagined this palace, this Versailles, while I watched a squirrel shimmy up a column from the stoop to the second floor, then up a downspout to the third. It moved with resolve and clarity. It knew where it was going. I thought
Wait.
wait wait
no
no no no No NO
but the squirrel had already slipped through a crack in a window, dropping into the house and out of sight.
Our defenses were felled. Our kingdom was being ransacked. Outside, in the sun, we couldn’t stop laughing.