From The Bungalow
we're six months in and now the rags have a place to go1 and the kettle wakes the kitchen up every nine we have memorized which parts of the house the balete sheds the most leaves and we have left the old plants to survive in the garden all on their own now that the rainy days have begun
on the weekends there is a familiar quiet and we spend the afternoons falling asleep in the living room half-watching horror films with wine glasses on the floor stained with leftover moscatos
and one time i heard a friend, almost a sibling now, say, "this feels nice,” i felt it so profoundly– a peace found undemanded appearing in a moment so mundane "is this what ten years into marriage looks like?" i said maybe, and that was the moment i began taking note of what peace feels like in its rawest form promising myself to never get involved with someone unless his presence feels like coming home to a clean, warm house after a day out in the storm
1 I used to live in an old, refurbished bungalow with two other friends. It was a spacious home of at least 200 sqm, and the middle of the house where every room meets is a huge kitchen with a bright skylight above. We were starting out, we didn't know how living together works. I brought a lot of kitchen fixtures and utensils, but despite the space, there were no homes for everyday things, including the kitchen rags. It took us six months to find a home for each.













