For a week or two, I mean. The sublet experience is coming to a close, so I say goodbye to this: four months. Six rooms, all of them ugly. Two roommates, couldn't be nicer. Doorman. Elevator. Basement-level darkness from sunup to sundown. On the 4th floor. Reason? No reason. Someone should be fined for doing this to an apartment like this, and yet. If I could, I would, but I can't. So I go. Sarah gets to babysit me for a week, bless her, and then who knows. Perhaps the TWC folks will be kind and arrive quickly to make the connections: cable, phone, internet. If I favor you with my patronage, won't you come? Probably not; probably it will be a game that we play, them and me (they and I?), back and forth, both of us not quite winning. The need is all on one side, the power on the other. The boxes, though—the endless parade of boxes, the journey that started here and continues still, exhausting, restless, tentative, scary, thrilling, all the cardboard and the tape and the stuffing and the lifting and the waiting—arrive in increments, on different days, from different neighborhoods in different states. I've missed my books, by the way; I will kiss them all. And the boxes will remain, until the furniture is purchased and delivered, or until I go mad. Whichever comes first. What a marvelous plan this all seemed at the time, way back when, when I first planned it. A year ago. Dear God. Never have I been so ready to be settled.