Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
The small metal key turning in my desk drawer, securing my new lease where no one else can touch it.
By the following Saturday, the silence in the studio on Elm Street had become a solid, dependable presence.
I sat on my small gray rug at eight o’clock in the morning, my back pressed against the base of the sofa, watching the water slide down the windowpane.
A single white ceramic mug rested in the center of the stained oak coffee table, the steam rising from the dark roast in a straight, thin line before twisting toward the ceiling.
This table had been the first piece of furniture I bought with my own money when I left college, a sixty-dollar find at a thrift shop on Hawthorne Boulevard that I spent three weekends sanding down and sealing with linseed oil.
The dark ring from Vanessa’s wet glass of iced tea was still visible near the left corner, a faint, pale circle that had soaked deep into the grain during her first week in my old apartment.
