"This Is Where I Live"

I stepped onto the tile checkerboard landing of my apartment, shielded from the changing wind by the cement archway above my head. I fumbled in my pocket, aware of several forming holes in the cloth, searching for my key. Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder and brought the key to its home in the green door. The glass window revealed darkened shapes and colors inside, indefinitely. I turned the key. Nothing happened. It fit in the slot, but didn’t turn. I narrowed my eyes a little, confused. I backed up two or three steps, craned my stiff neck and checked the number on the top of the gray wall. It read, 95 Cranbrook. This is where I live. I only have one house key, this makes no sense. The thin green door was the same, the checkerboard landing was the same. I tried the key again. Nothing. I looked over my shoulder once more. This is England, this is where I live. Frustrated, I turned and walked back onto the path. Along the row of apartments the yellow street lamps dimly lit patches of familiar ground. The number fifteen bus grumbled past, estranged faces peering through the dirty glass. They could tell I don’t belong here. But I couldn’t. This is where I live. As I walked down the street, I looked down at my black shoes—they had carried me this far. There is a dark brick hallway between every two or three apartments. I tried one of them, blocked by a tall, wooden door with a metal latch. It opened and I stepped into even greater darkness. The night was settling in to a windy sleep and I latched the bolt to keep it from making too much noise. In the windless hallway, I could hear my footsteps ring against the walls. The invisible ceiling came into light as I continued onto the cobblestone paths which run behind the apartments, the apartments where I live. I circled around to the back of number ninety-five, glancing through the branches of small trees bordering the parking lot. In the red brick inlet between ninety-five and ninety-three, I approached the back door. Again I reached for my key. The cold slowed my hands. I put the key into the keyhole of the apartment where I live. Once more, it entered, but hesitated. I pushed on the heavy door keeping me from the place where I live. This is strange. I knocked softly on the door. All of the lights were off in the kitchen and the dining room. I heard footsteps from within. I backed up from the door. I didn’t want to frighten my roommates. Out of the corner of my eye, a face and an inquisitive hand drew the curtain, and let it fall again. A few seconds later, the door opened slowly.

“Can I help you?” asked someone I had never seen before.

“I…is this ninety-five Cranbrook?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered distrustfully.

“Oh. Right.”

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. Yes something is wrong. This is where I live.

“Is Maxine home?”

“Maxine? I don’t know a Maxine.”

“Oh…okay.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m—" the wind picked up. I said a name, but neither of us heard it.

“Are you alright?” she asked, becoming noticeably frustrated.

“Yes, I think so. It’s just…I live here.” I said, looking at the dirty ground. This is my trash can. This is where I live.

“Sorry?” she asked.

I stepped backwards and looked at the window to my room in the apartment. This is the room where I live. I walked over to the large glass pane encased by the new, white painted wood. I peered inside. I recognized nothing. I have things. I have a bookshelf and a bed. There was nothing in the room.

“Can I help you?” asked the girl leaning hesitantly out from the warm kitchen. I didn’t answer. This is where I live. I turned back around to face her. The wind picked up a pile of leaves like a greedy child and threw them up into a swirl. The dust and the cold were uncomfortable. I want to go home, I want to go to my home. I walked back past the girl. She stared right at me as I passed her.

“This is ninety-five Cranbrook,” I said. “This is where I live.”

I looked at my brown shoes as I walked away from that apartment, across the cobblestone path, past the small trees, and into the empty parking lot. Rain began to fall lightly, playfully. I turned up my collar a little, bitterly cold but reluctant to the fashion. I glanced back at the crooked white numbers above the kitchen window in the back of my apartment. 95. This is where I live.

The rain was only visible in the beam of dull light falling from the tall lampposts. There was nobody in sight. “I’m—" The wind picked up again and silenced my name as it fell from my lips and landed next to my white shoes which rested cautiously on the swimming, pot-holed parking lot cement.