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We were emailing to arrange a week in December for me to return to the apartment. I check my email on my phone and see the last one he sent, weeks old and glaring in my inbox. The playlist shifts and I plop down onto the couch we picked together, still pungent with the staleness of new upholstery. I watch her and can’t remember the last time she danced. A girl in her late twenties, hip shaking in her underwear and a tank top, a towel wrapped over her head fresh from the shower. I keep dancing, watching my reflection in the mirror of the flatscreen TV.
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There’s ample room for me to sashay and twist through the joint living room-kitchen. Turns out, this studio is exactly the right size for one person. Not in the cabinets, not under the bed.īut now, hearing Stevie’s cool rasp soothing my ears, it all feels open. A pile of miscellaneous junk grew in the corner and there was no place to hide anything anymore.
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The single window in the back of the room shed sunlight only between 11 am and 1. We were on the ground floor of the building surrounded by high rises. When we moved into the Upper East Side studio six months ago, I could feel the walls caving in. For the first time, in a long time, I take up my own space. My arms raise, hailing themselves up towards the white lofted ceiling. My syncopated steps spring all over the hardwood floor. I’m back here for a week moving my belongings out while my freshly ex-boyfriend of eight years is away. Alone in my studio apartment, I bounce and rock and bloom with abandon to the simplest, most evocative two-note bass line to ever rumble my ears. Stevie Nicks serenades in rasp while John McVie steadies the undercurrent. It’s not long before they coax the rest of my body to move along with them. When the bass line hits, my hips swing, my head bobs, my shoulders sway. When the rain washes you clean you’ll know.