In the Village

The air conditioner still sits in the window. There is no space for it inside, even once winter comes. It fits poorly, cold air rushes across my feet as I sit at the desk. The heat is on in the building; the pipes click, click, click at regular intervals, but I always seem to miss the steam when it comes. Finally I catch a cycle, the valve sputters and creaks and the vent hisses. It smells like dust and Christmas and a hundred New York winters.

In the hallway, a dying fire alarm beeps in echoes. An entire day passes as I disappear into countless wholesome Middle American family blogs, from crafty housewives and young parents creating a happy life for themselves. They make you wonder what life you have made for yourself. They make you question your scorn.

I wouldn't give this up for anything, your roommate says over red wine and acrylic paints. Being an artist is the only thing I ever wanted to be. She gave up the family, the bulging bank account, every sense of normalcy for a cramped West Village apartment with squirrels on the fire escape and making rich people coffee to pay the rent when times get tough. But every day she sits in that studio and creates queer images from her imagination; every day she is free. We are creatives, she says, we don't have a choice, you know.

There's an unease in your gut, but it is not entirely clear what it means. You return to your dusty room, close the browser windows, shake the questions out of your head.