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Home: The Toast

I breakfast on the veranda every morning, surveying the skyline and taking a deep, rich breath before humming to myself. I am instantly invigorated. I am never groggy. I have never been groggy.

From my balcony there is a view of the world trade tower, the east side of Manhattan, and all the important neighborhood dogs. The dogs know I am looking down on them and smiling, which is why they walk so proudly. Their owners have no clue.

My balcony is only wide enough for two to dine so it is very exclusive. Not even the cat can get out here.

My husband and I dine here every evening and have intimate conversations. We have ceased watching TV and picking up our phones. We gaze into each other’s eyes and recite poetry and famous love letters to each other. Letters we have never read but suddenly know from memory, inspired by the colors of the dusk.

I will plant flowers out here that will save the bee population. I will plant basil and tomatoes and there will be no more hunger. I will grill for everyone and all my clothing will spontaneously turn into crisp but soft button downs like Ina Garten’s. There will be a perpetual breeze in my hair, even on the rare occasions I go indoors, but my curls will never be disturbed.

I will never lose these sunglasses.

My upstairs neighbors, the one with the rooftop penthouse, will see how good I am at having outdoor space. They will say to each other that they just do not appreciate their multiple terraces the way I would, and that it would be better for all involved if we switched apartments, even though they have a small child and a large dog. I would invite them up once a month for cocktails and roasted lamb on their former terrace, and they will sigh with relief. “Yes, this was always meant for you.”

I survive now on photosynthesis. The sun has told me it will only rain when it is convenient for me. The sun recognizes me as its sole heir. I am the sun now.

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