The apartment was too expensive but it boasted open brick face walls so I put down the deposit and prayed.
I didn't know it was a sad apartment until I lived there and caught a virus from the crumbling mortar.
Young, sad and lonesome. I listened to Joni Mitchel and George Winston while I cried and smoked cigarettes. At twenty my world was joyless.
It started to get hard to leave the apartment.
Messages on the answering machine:
"Your rent is past due."
"Who the hell are you?" Light a cigarette. Cry. Don't take a shower.
"Suz, it's mom. Call me."
"Mom? Where are you? I have all this STUFF collected from your storage and It's like I'm home, only I'm not. Like you're just around the corner, or maybe..... in the bricks?" Stay in bed. Don't go to work. NEVER answer the phone.
I started to spend days drinking seltzer water from liter bottles and count the bricks. I ran my fingers around each edge. Sometimes I needed to stand on a chair. One time I stood on my dresser.
I opened the windows at night and laughed at the drug dealers on the corner. I turned my skin inside out.
In the end, I don't know what happened. I wasn't there anymore. I was on the other side.
Maybe I moved the bricks. One by one, and found a secret passage way into or out of what was real or fake.
Or maybe I'm still there and I've fallen asleep on top of the dresser.