I don’t have a presence in this apartment. It’s all downstairs, in storage. When I look around, all I see are things that aren’t mine.
The six-floor elevator ride down to parking level one is enough time for me to run out of patience and stop holding back cuss words. Before the elevator doors open, I’m swearing out loud. As I step out, I just nod to the people waiting to get on.
To see me today, you’d never guess that I was once excited by the idea of having a storage unit. My previous apartment was full of things I wanted to keep but didn’t use regularly. Now, these things fill a…