It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while you stumble upon an apartment building that resembles one of those 1980s sitcoms, where everybody’s friends, and all the doors are perpetually left unlocked, and neighbors actually can borrow a cup or sugar or a few eggs or a fifth of bourbon. I lived in one of those buildings for seven years, and while I never borrowed a bourbon from anyone, I have definitely folded someone else’s underwear when they very clearly forgot about their clothes in the drier, and returned to find a thank-you note and some chocolate in return.
Yeah. That kind of building.
I moved in sort of accidentally—or at least a little faster than I normally would have: My then-boyfriend and now husband (though we’re separated) is a longtime tenant, and he offered to put me up for few weeks at his place the day after José…
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