The people in the studios.

8111871153_9a22400eac_zI live in a 1910’s hotel converted to small apartments and studios. I find I have nothing in common with my neighbors. Each one is more different than the other.

There is the friendly older, short, overweight, balding guy that looks like fat Mario… I always imagine he likes pasta and is very handy with plumbing issues. He smells like an overnight puddle and olives.

There is also the very handsome, rugged-looking guy that I’m certain must work in some type of hard labor because his hands, his fingers, look very strong and with scars.. but since I always see him folding his laundry I doubt he is the murderous type. He looks domesticated. He smells like moss and cedar.

There is the lesbian couple- I can see from my kitchen window and into their living room. I’ve seen them have sex twice, I think they know I’ve watched. I only watched out of politeness. I didn’t want them to think I looked away in disgust. I think their apartment must smell like patchouli and dandelion.

There is my next door neighbor; a pretty asian girl with a very thick accent. I once heard a commotion in her apartment so I went over and found her struggling to get a huge box out of her apartment. I offered help but she declined sourly. I’m not friends with her. Her apartment doesn’t smell like anything I care.

There is the red-headed chubby kid that lives in my floor, by the stairs. 4 nights out of the week I can hear at least 3 male voices and what seems to be video games coming out of his apartment. Also weed, lots of weed smoking take place there.

Then there is me. My neighbors have seen me walking a cat on a leash.  They probably know I struggle with my door lock. They don’t know when I leave my apartment but they know when I am back because of my giggles and the heavy click of my heels on the hardwood floor. I am “deaf” to my own smell, but Im sure to them it is whiskey and oreos.

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