It's our last week in our loft. We've imagined a tight living situation in a two-bedroom in Highland Park where we'll justify the cost of rent by all of the money we'll save on matinees at The Highland Theater. I'll miss this space, the old, Eastern European men who run our parking garage and scold me when I forget (or refuse) to put the orange cone in our spot when I leave, the line of eleven drafty windows and their blinds that douse me in the last tenants; dust when I raise them in the morning, the elevators that sometimes work, the view I like to steal from the twelfth floor hallway windows and fire escape, the postman whose name it's too late to ask, and the first corner of Los Angeles that ever felt like home. I will not miss our coin-operated washing machine and dryer.
We took some photos to remember this space and us in it.
