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Here is an aging apartment on the seventh floor of a building. Inside, the countertops, and walls, and laminate, and everything, are tinged with a yellowness that comes with affordable rent for the poor. The outdated kitchen appliances are aching with different gravities, creaking with gossip, and you could hear it in the sounds of their settling if you were there. They are quite fond of their inability to shutup. The person they talk incessantly about has remained the same for thirteen years— a gaunt man named Mr. Boothe, who right now is inside of the bathroom closing the doors. It might be interesting for some to note that this poses difficulty for a man of sixty-six years old; as the door is too big for her threshold, perhaps not unlike a woman who gains weight with age, he had to strain himself to shut it tight. It might also be interesting that Mr. Boothe lives alone, making this bathroom door the closest thing he has to a loving relationship with a woman, making privacy a nonissue, making the situation increasingly strange. So there is an aging man to go with an aging apartment. There is a handful of people who are prone to call this a match made in heaven, but it is most certainly not that.
