My apartment has stacks of books next to the bookcase. Two Christmas cacti blooming on the window ledge. Music through the speakers of my television.
In it, I have now scrambled eggs, peeled clementines, layered sliced fruit in footed bowls. Run the dishwasher.
I live alone in this apartment with my book, the flowing generosity of friends (the pouring of tea, wine, the unpacking of boxes), and with my own future, which has been, all these months, like my book, waiting for me.