What I did next

I went to the new apartment. My new apartment. I must have checked that I still had the keys a dozen times on the ride up. Whenever I check something in my bag like that, I assume a thief is watching me and realizing, "aha, that one has something valuable she's trying to protect, but her abundance of caution has just betrayed her," and that I'll be mugged soon thereafter.

I had to switch subways three times on the way. The second time was to get away from a man who suddenly started to rock back and forth and mutter under his breath; he was neatly dressed in a suit, with a trim beard and a yalmulke, and while I know it was probably legitimate davening -- or mental illness -- something about him scared me. What was that bag he was gripping underneath the seat? Maybe it was because something big and great had just happened in my life that I expected something bigger and horrible to happen to cancel it out. Of course, had a bomb gone off in the subway car after I had left it, I'd feel incredibly guilty for not having said anything. I wonder if I'm cut out for life in New York in the Age of Terror, or whatever the CNN brand is.

The apartment looked the same as it had earlier in the day at the walk through, only now, it was mine. I turned on all the lights. I walked around. I sat on the floor here, then there, envisioning where I'd put what painting. I had brought The Numptys with me for company. Right now they are in the kitchen.

The previous owners had not left a big bag of trash, only three things: a razor blade, a milk crate, and two small bottles of Jameson. I was in such a good mood that it took me a full hour to wonder if there was any morbid significance to that combination.