The couple who lived below me were EVICTED.

I saw the notice on their door and two days later, they left in a cacophony of cardboard boxes and car wheels.

Don’t make me do this alone, he yelled at her, Don’t you make me —

Do this alone.

Fuck you, she screamed, fuck you fuck you I hate you.

Car door slams. She skids away. And the next day, they’re gone.

For weeks I’ve been griping about them. About the stench of cigarettes and beer that filtered through my air vents, pulled up from their apartment.

They were the first thing I noticed here. The first fault I found. But now that they’ve left, I feel sorry. More because their leaving feels part of something bigger.

Some transition.

Summer to fall.

Some symbol of permanence.

And the realization that leaves won’t be changing. That I’m really here. Really am, a part of this new place.