They looked at the place quickly. There wasn't time to contemplate and dissect the finer points. They were closing soon enough that a homelessness of sorts was appearing on the horizon. It was between this place and a share - yes, a share - with a woman and her teenage daughter...who liked to bake cookies...in the shared kitchen...and practice piano...in the shared living room. So decision made. Lease signed. It was in the right school zone, they exhaled and felt as close to safe as they had in months.
After a few days, they went back to look at their future home, half of which was a disgusting basement. It was horrific. And, more importantly, it was as if they had never seen this part of the place. As if they had walked through a door that hadn't existed before to find something so wrong as to question its very existence. They looked around, separately, on their own, trying to make sense of the strategy, of the thought process, that allowed them to - just days ago - decide that this place was fine. That it was, simply, a compromise. That is was going to work. That, in fact, it was not a disgusting basement with crumbling features and crawl space atmosphere unfit to safely house small children. That it wasn't darkness personified. That air actually circulated somehow. That they wouldn't perish in their sleep from their close proximity to the boiler (in their closet).
After he spent his hour or so trying to make sense of it, he locked it back up and walked back 7th Avenue to the home that should now be in boxes. It was cold. Frigid. He fingered the keys to the new place in his pocket. Took a couple deep, soundless breaths. And then burst into tears.
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