It was in the eastern forty-sevens in New York, just like Truman Capote’s Breakfast. I was out in the street, waiting for a cab, looking at an old brownstone and thinking about places we visit throughout our lives. When we’re in a rut, when we go to the office nine to five, when we stick to a group of friends, we keep seeing the same places over and over. We do not get to experience the diversity of this world, so naturally, we feel like we know it all.

I was very curious about the brownstone, the stairwell, the hallways, the apartments. I wanted to see their layouts, furniture, wallpapers, the view from the windows. The smells must be different in each little apartment, the sheets on the beds as well. I wondered what the tap water tasted like.

The cab pulled up. I noticed the driver’s white shirt and the beads he stuck to the rear view mirror. I got in and named an address. It was an old one, I had been there many times. As we pulled away, I turned my head to look at the brownstone. I had half a mind to ask the driver to stop. I would get out, cross the street, and climb the stoop to see the uncharted interior.

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