Page 57 - In Five Years

I decide I need to go in search of the apartment. I need something concrete, some
form of evidence.
Sunday, David heads into the office and I tell him I’m going for a run. I used
to run all the time in my twenties. Long ones. Down the West Side Highway and

through the Financial District, between the tall buildings and across the
cobblestones. I’ve run the loop in Central Park, around the reservoir, watching

the leaves change from green to yellow to amber, the water reflecting the
seasons. I’ve run two marathons and half a dozen halfs. Running does all the
things for me it does for everyone else—clears my head, gives me time to think,
makes my body feel good and loose. But it also has the added benefit of taking

me places. When I first moved to the city I could only afford to live in Hell’s
Kitchen, but I wanted to be everywhere. So I ran.

In the early days of our relationship I used to try and get David to come with
me, but he’d want to stop after a few blocks and get bagels so I started leaving
him at home. Running is better alone anyway. More space to think.

It’s 9 a.m. by the time I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, but it’s Sunday, early, so
there aren’t that many tourists out yet. Just bikers and other joggers. I keep my
head high, shoulders back, focusing on my core pulling forward. My breathing is

ragged. It has been too long since I’ve been on a long run, and I feel my lungs
rebelling against the exertion.
I never saw the outside of the building. But from the view I’d have to place it

somewhere close to the water, maybe near Plymouth. I get over the bridge and
slow to a walk as I make my way down Washington Street toward the river. The
sun has started to burn off the haze of the morning, and the water reflects in

sparkles. I take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.
Dumbo, short for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, used to be a
ferry landing and still has an industrial feel. Large warehouse buildings mix with

overpriced grocer markets and all-glass apartment buildings. As my breathing
slows, I realize I should have done a search before I came down. Apartment
views, open listings. I could have make a spreadsheet and gone through it—why

didn’t I think of that?
I stop in front of Brooklyn Bridge Park, in front of a brick-and-glass building
that takes up the entire block. Not it.