dailyeatings

My old apartment still smells the same: carpet and paint and must and that something I was never quite able to put my finger on, even after having lived in it for four years. It’s a smell heavy with memories—I almost expect to walk out into the living room to see my brother challenge me to a game of Madden, my sisters cooking in the kitchen or watching primetime dramas on the WB, my guinea pig running circles her cage, my junk piled high on the dinner table. Part of me feels like when I wake up tomorrow morning, it will be back then all over again, and it would be glorious, sunny, sweltering summer, the middle of July. I’d take the day off and sit around in my pajamas eating cereal, watching Sportscenter and playing video games all morning. We would go out to the field, all of us, the whole crew, and play Frisbee. I would go over to the house and after hours of indecision we’d all pile into a car and buy cheap takeout from the store down the street. Shirts sticky with sweat, we’d sit outside late and drink coffee or wine, talking about how great our distant futures would be. Air conditioners would run full blast around the clock, the sun would hang in the sky forever, and I would go to bed late every night knowing that I would have no real responsibilities the following morning, that every upcoming day would be as consequence free and trivial, for better or worse, as the day before. That’s what the apartment smells like.