24 these adults were never quite teens, making up for hours making love to their calculus books by slapping tinted windows with clammy hands, toes too deep in the leather cushions on which toenail edges often left modest scratches. <strong>The</strong> garaged cars eventually sold, while most of the young people stayed nearby. I intended to stay for just a year. <strong>The</strong> area, strewn with paper-thin leaves with veins reaching at any obtuse angle, was where I resolved to live, at least for a year given increased rent. I didn’t bring much upon moving in, wheeling my belongings in a red buggy cart from the room I rented down the same street. I would hang my freshly laundered clothes on the third floor, place pots, pans, and cupcake trays in their proper cabinets, and sigh with relief at the absence of brown recluses, pharaoh ants, feral ferrets, and the like. <strong>The</strong> hot water worked, the stove brought my rice noodles to a subtle crisp, and my windows stood firm within their frames during the meanest rains. But of all things in this open space, I couldn’t open my microwave oven. Nor could I store lettuce in a fridge twice my height. Moles in the wall, screaming, moaning, and shriveling with a final coo, their singed summer fur driving yuppies away every several months. This was a common complaint, published on Yelp and directed towards the efficiency in which I wrote lists of things I regretted on a cheap red futon. I could not smell too well, though I felt the nightly frequencies, the scratching, and human profanities. <strong>The</strong> window to my microwave was tinted solid black, though I noticed minute dents from the inside.
Every day or so, I dismantled half a roll of generic paper towels, dousing them with water to mop the floor beneath the unopened refrigerator. From both appliances, there wafted no odor, and any sounds heard rose in their shakiness the further I walked away from the kitchen. I didn’t wish to bother the maintenance man, as I was happy enough to live in my first apartment as a single woman. I thought to call the police, or the fire department, regarding the locked, yet lively microwave. I could hear it. <strong>The</strong>n I didn’t. I knew something was amiss. But the fear of ridicule suppressed any inclination to voice my concern. Towards the end of my first month as a resident, I returned home from work, cutting my sandaled feet on glass trapezoids gracing the concrete tributaries like shards of imported beer bottles on hazelnut riverbanks. I crouched to the ground as a corner impaled the crease between my big toe and the ball of my foot. I rocked back and forth, and noticed the shadow of what I thought was a tiny child. Or a malnourished, sleep-deprived woman like myself. On the floor, I steadied myself with a bent arm, extending my torso forward to better look at the girl who broke the glass. She mimicked my lame martial arts routine, blinking slowly, dry skin trailing down each corner of her chapped mouth. Her bottom lip was pure mud. Blood gone dry like the curdled milk she swirled in a tiny, coral clay mug that shook, enclosed by half-eaten fingers. Her knuckles, knobs of thickened skin, white at the border though purplish on the inside. She stared at me, demanding I offer my insides. I shook my head. She 25