There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"D-3," Mara mutters the combination as she punches it into the vending machine keypad; the only not-so-modern modern amenity located in The Mare's Nest communal laundry room. As she waits for the snack to drop, she notes a small pink flyer, taped to the machine blocking the Slim Jim's on A-4.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Maybe this could be her chance to mingle with her neighbors, or maybe the moment she makes a fool of herself in front of near strangers. She contemplates all the different scenarios while mindlessly watching the small bag of crunchy Cheetos begin its descent, only to get stuck at the end of the coil.
"Are you kidding me?" Her weak arms attempt to shake the machine, to no avail. If there ever came a time when her life depended on the strength of her upper body, she knew she'd be as good as dead. Case in point: the mystery of the stalled Cheetos.
College was generally the time for 18-and-overs to finally get their sense of freedom from their parents. Their time to stay up late and eat whatever they please. This was not Mara's collegiate experience, thanks to the ever growing presence of her long-term boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, Robert. While there may not have been parental controls on her lifestyle choices while at the University of Chicago, Robert lingered, giving "A Christmas Story"-esque commentary on her daily decisions.
"Why are you eating that garbage?" Robert questions as her Cheetos in the rec room vending machine stall at the top row. "Leave it. That shit will give you a fat ass, anyways."
The image of Robert's disgusted face as she awaited her harmless snack has stuck with her ever since. "Fuck it," she softly kicks the laundry room machine, now snapped back to the reality of current day. Hopping up on the dryer, she places a manuscript she's editing on her lap and continues her laundry.
"Humming ceiling fan. Leaky faucet. Busted A/C. Malfunctioning washing machine." Harry flips through his maintenance requests for the day in his apartment nearby. Already hours into his day and his neck aches with responsibility. The sounds of nuts and bolts echo throughout his home as he tinkers with his VHS player that malfunctioned when he was watching "Back to the Future" earlier that morning. A flair for things broken, yet still beautiful— a phrase that aptly describes Harry. He never expected a "thank you." But late at night, when he goes over his accomplishments that day, he wonders what it would be like to receive an appreciative smile or nod in his direction. Instead, he takes solace in the fact that he makes people's' lives easier and more enjoyable. As he prioritizes his tasks for the day and puts the pieces of his media player back together, he hears frustrated grunts in the laundry room next door.
