The first morning in Manhattan starts the same as any other; I have never understood how being in a different place merits the question: How does it feel to be here? You know how it feels? I woke up out of a similar bed to my own in a room in a similar size to my own. The question is akin to asking, “How does it feel to be a year older?” For this one the answer is: It feels the same as yesterday. I’ll let you know when it feels any different.
Only when I stepped out the front door of my aunt and uncle’s apartment, only then, would things truly change.
My aunt and uncle’s apartment is two floors (they call it a duplex) with a metal staircase punched through the middle. Climbing down the staircase in the morning puts you in the middle of the living room (right behind the couch). From here an office lies behind you while the kitchen is on your left. With a wall of windows to the right (with the shades drawn) the only thing that is left is the apartments front door laying in front of you, beyond the couch, to the left of the television.
Close to the windows on the right side lays a pool table. I’ve never played; I’ve only watched the older kids at school play it in the rec room. I haven’t played because 1) I’m afraid to make a fool of myself and 2) I’m sure they wouldn’t let me play anyway.