N 7th and Bedford

The view of the Manhattan skyline is breathtaking. From the bathtub you see the Freedom Tower changing colors like a Times Square spectacle. When she came here as a squatter, there was nothing, you know. Just an empty factory and somebody got locked in on the first night. Everybody wishes they got in before it was clean.

You leave the rickety building at last and the winter wind whips you in the face. You are drunk. Make your way through the Bedford street crowds; another hipster weaving inebriated through the streets, pay no mind. Follow the waves to the L train. You would never see them normally but oh, the Marcy Avenue trains don't run like they should. Blame the storm for your inconvenience. You stare at your feet through the tunnel to keep from throwing up on your neighbor before 3rd avenue. Suddenly deposited at 14th street, you haven't the patience to wait for a connection.

The scent of fried oil at Five Guys as you turn the quaint corner on Barrow, and despite the drunk crowds, despite the trash day piles in the street, you realize: this one moment is worth the ridiculous rent. There is nowhere else you can call Home like this, and your every argument is rendered invalid. Trip on the curb but find your keys at the last minute: this city is not so much the dream as it is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing rational about it.

You realize it is love.