Wormholes and floorboards

4:00am, or thereabouts.

So I own a place.

My high-school science teacher, or maybe it was one of my dad’s friends, described black holes (or were they wormholes?) as anti-spaces in which time and space compress, and were you to go through one, you would travel in time. That’s what happened to me over the past three months.

I remember seeing this place for the first time, walking in past the entry way and into the grand living room, seeing the massive windows and and endless view of Bedford Stuyvesant, I remember holding back a smile as to not let the broker know how bad I wanted to live here, my jaw hurting like I was hiding some sour candy I stole from a jar.

I feigned disappointment in a couple details and made an offer two days later.

I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember negotiations, lawyers, checks, and near breakdowns that included calls to my mom who injected me with the fire I needed to call lawyers and brokers and demand things. I remember movers who seemed to do nothing but somehow got my stuff into my new place. I recall my first night that wasn’t as special as I had hoped because I was fucking exhausted.

And now I’m here, waiting for new furniture and fussing over two floorboards that aren’t even. I’m calling the super tomorrow, damnit.

But it’s mine.