You are leaving for two days. One bathroom window is still cracked. Your carry-on leans against the front door, keys looped around your index finger, and the downstairs neighbor mentioned they spotted a stray raccoon rummaging through hallway fire escape... Read more
The room smells shut. You are opening one sash before you leave. The residual microwaved popcorn fumes from last night cling to the knit throw blanket draped over the arm of your thrifted couch, and the faint mildew tang from... Read more
You think it is closed. The latch is still vertical. You prod the top sash with one knuckle, and it slides up half an inch without resistance, cold night air seeping in to curl around your socked ankles. A faint... Read more
You want a crack. The forecast says rain after midnight. Your hallway window faces the fire escape, and the air coming through right now smells like cut clover from the community garden three floors down and cold stone from the... Read more
You are at the door with your keys. One sash is still up. You freeze mid-step toward the elevator, your tote slung over one shoulder still heavy with your laptop and the leftover pasta container you forgot to wash last... Read more
You opened one window for air. In the morning you will not remember which. It’s 11pm, your socks are still damp from walking the dog in the drizzle, and the last thing you want to do is go from unit... Read more
The sash can open too far. You are looking at the stop. The plastic stop is screwed into the upper side of the window jamb, just above the point where the top of the lower sash sits when it’s fully... Read more
The radiator is about to knock. A window is still open. You kick off your scuffed slippers right by the hallway baseboard to cross the cold tile fast, your socked feet barely catching on a loose thread from the welcome... Read more
You only want one open. Both are cracked. You’re standing in the short hallway between the two rooms, socked feet sliding a little on the cold vinyl, a crumpled paper towel still tucked in your back pocket from wiping down... Read more
That window is the one a person could reach. It is unlatched. You pause mid-step to the front door, work boots scuffing the scuffed linoleum of the hallway, because your neighbor texted an hour ago about a string of attempted... Read more