From up there, I thought I could see it all, but there was nothing. I could see the vents on the roof of the building next door, and beyond that I could see into the window of the man who always kept his suit on until bed.

It wasn't supposed to be about the view, I knew. It was about living in the city and making the most of it, having a small nest to come to at night, to rest, to get up in, to walk out of, to descend from. The point was to be on the ground.

Nonetheless, I felt betrayed. She had given me the paperwork and the keys in the evening, when everything outside looked starry and precious, and I was a little bit drunk after celebrating the moment.
I had a bed, and I had a set of dishes and one pot, but mostly I ate hot dogs on the street. I moved in a few nights later, still feeling glittery and optimistic.

That first morn, I stood by the window having my first glass of that bitter tap water, and I saw that there was nothing to see. I heard the woman upstairs clopping around in stilettos that she was bad at walking in (I confirmed this judgment in the lobby the next week). The baby next door yelled.

The man across the way pulled on that suit coat and looked out the window, but he didn't see me.