Sunday.
I have been living in my apartment for over half a year now. My “luxury” 1250 sq. ft. apartment sits right on the edge of the “Gold Coast” in Chicago. Upon trotting out of my bedroom at 5:30 in the morning my first Sunday there, I learned exactly why they called it the Gold Coast: my living room was flooded with an almost auburn glow, what appeared to be the result of infinite reflections that were cast by all the high-rises around me, basking in the wide yawn of morning. Walking into it was like walking into the fringe of a star and I could barely feel the heat rising from the Lake to greet my goosebumps. In nothing but a t-shirt and undies, I pulled open the door to my balcony and stood, barefoot and still bleary, with my arms hanging loosely over the black metal rungs. From there, I could see a little more than a sliver of Lake Michigan, a few yachts and small sailboats already criss-crossing the pale blue that hovered beneath the orange sky like a timid smile. We were awake, we were alive, we were hungry, and I did not begrudge those who looked up all 22 floors to see a half-naked girl watching the boats at 5:35 a.m., before she padded back into from whence she came to brew a cup of coffee.
It has been more than six months since I moved into my apartment. And, still, when I am swirling the cream into my coffee, all I can think is,
I wish I could go home.
