January 18, 2011

• We picked up our keys last night.

  We really only saw our new apartment once - for about 15 minutes - before we put in the application. In the weeks after they accepted our bid and we paid our deposit, I began to doubt myself. The things I'd liked about the place became hard to visualize - so did the things I didn't. I worried that, in my desperation to find a place, I'd been hasty or overly optimistic. I'd pushed C to take the first acceptable flat and now we'd both have to live with my impulsiveness.

  Yesterday was the first time I'd seen the space without the previous tenants' things. I could walk around freely and really look at the details. The ceilings were at least two feet higher than I remember. We'd estimated 10', but I think they're easily 12. Soaring. The big front window with its stained glass transem was warped with age. There was a little hole, patched with tape. It was more decrepit, more elegant; Mrs Havisham, halfway in and still tragically beautiful. Its white mouldings stretched out across the wall; facing it, the big French doors. Above, another antique ceiling medallion like the one in the den, delicately painted fruit over a simple chandelier.

  In three of the four rooms, wood floors gleamed under years of wear. The windows in the office and kitched had, when we'd first seen them, been covered with awful, generic blinds. Now, bare, they were twice the size I'd thought. Standing on the sill, my eyes were just level with the top edge of the pane. The mudroom would be more than big enough for C's workbench and tools along with extra space for storage and bikes. Even the bedroom carpet - my only real reservation - was an inoffensive pale grey and not at all the sickly blue I'd been obsessing about.

  Last night, when I walked up to the new house I was excited and nervous, steeling myself to make the best of the worst. When I walked in the door, I was home.

  g.

  • 1:36 pm
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