The condo was in the heart of the city, in a historical neighborhood that would never be blighted by 30-story buildings or new construction homes that looked like Cubist paintings rendered in 3D. But the preserved brick exterior belied the interior – a catalog of appliances and furnishings unavailable for purchase in a mall or department store. But first one had to walk down a long narrow hallway, a luxurious waste of space filled only by an Italian motorcycle. A real one. Then, the hallway opened into the great room that housed said furnishings and the far wall of which was composed solely of windows that looked out onto the scrubbed facades of the neighboring historical brick. The west wall formerly served as the exterior of the adjacent building and Depression-era, painted-on advertisements for an insurance office still covered it. The east wall, which could be covered by a projector screen with a push of a button for the ultimate home movie viewing experience, had been done over in a faux finish intended to invoke a somewhat gritty industrial feel that complemented the exposed ventilation ducts. An open kitchen occupied the space in the great room nearest the door. The granite countertops and stainless steel appliances required for entry into the young, well-to-do, urban professionals club were free of clutter and impossibly clean. A bathroom into which several of my friends could have dropped their entire apartments pretended to fill the excess space behind the kitchen on one’s way back through that interminably long hallway to the doorless master suite, which unmistakably, until then, belonged only to a bachelor. This was the space that I would come to inhabit for 15 months.
Written in Robin Black’s To Bore or Not to Bore…Descriptive Passages No One Will Skim (June 10, 2015)