24
A few weeks ago, Jack and I moved into our first apartment, a small white-walled affair with a bedroom, an office, a living room and a kitchen. The layout wraps around itself, meaning that you can walk in a curve from the doorway through the hallway and into the office. It's a cozy home stocked, now, with some inherited furniture here, some holdovers from Jack's and my previous homes there. The little gray crocheted house is here, tucked in a corner.
My books and canvases are here, too, stacked neatly together with the brushes and paints. None of our lamps have lightbulbs yet: we have a shopping trip scheduled for Monday.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am now 24 years old. A new state, a new home, a new year for me.
