Eleven hundred and forty a month. Second floor, east-facing, a little balcony that gets the morning.
The living room set is in it. The dining table doesn’t fit, so I sold it and I use a small round one from a consignment place.
The curtains were made for tall windows and mine are short, so Delphine’s niece took them up for me and they look wrong and I don’t care.
The coffee maker is on my counter. The Italian one with the brass handle. Eleven hundred and eighty dollars, which is an insane amount of money for a coffee maker, and I use it every single morning at six-fifteen, and that is the one object out of all thirteen that I would go back into that house for.
