We can’t live in the city, it’s too expensive and we would slowly turn into those people, the kind who empty their wallets just to breathe in their own private air. Even if we could afford it, we wouldn’t.
Renting feels almost like permanence, anyway. A year is enough of a promise to make. I don’t know what we would do if we went any father.
We say the country like it’s unachievable because what would we do there? we ask, not thinking about the bars or subway but rather desk jobs and salaried positions that don’t mean anything outside of a five-block radius downtown. It’s not like we have any real skills. It’s not like someone upstate is going to pay me to tell them jokes and write succinct tweets.
Running away could work. We could be entirely different people. I’d die my hair and be someone’s something. But I don’t know what he’d do, what someone he could something, and I just don’t know where we’d live.