For the last four weeks, I have been living in a dilapidated two-story hovel. The house, along with the others up and down the block with the identical floor-plan, was built near the end of WWI and has been crumbling ever since. The lead paint flakes off in scales the size of armor plates. Nylon cord has replaced knobs on two of the doors. A large grate in the living room, four-foot square, serves as the house's central heating system.
Adding insult to injury, this shoddy residence shelters seven young males, aged 18-24. It's a good week when Monday's dishes are done by Sunday.
Thankfully, there is a glimmer of the sagacious attached to the mirror above the bathroom sink. Someone affixed a metallic sticker to the mirror that reads "You Are Beautiful". I shouldn't say someone. I know full well who put it there and she told me she picked up hundreds of these stickers from an art cooperative in Chicago.
In the morning, as I brush my teeth, I catch myself staring at the sticker as often as at my own reflection, contemplating just how the two of us ended up together.
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