I know what’s going to happen. In a few weeks, I’ll be back home and living with Stick (Stick’s mother has asked me to please stop calling it Shacking Up).
“My apartment in China,” I’ll tell him sometime when he’s moved my books and papers from one surface to the next, looking for a place to sit down. “had three bedrooms. One for my clothes, shoes and jewelry, one for my books and my desk, and one to actually sleep in.”
“My apartment in China,” I’ll tell him, “had marble countertops in the kitchen.”
“My apartment in China,” I’ll tell him, “had a little sunny balcony.”