We called it our villa.

Not in public, but together, drinking shitty wine on the countertop we’d constructed from an old door on top of garbage cans.

Or that time, when I was crying on the floor, 8 months pregnant, having just impaled my middle finger with a splinter of wood right under the damn fingernail while sanding trim from the 1800’s. I believe I raised said finger and screamed ‘fuck you, villa!’ to the sky, to the barren field, to my unborn child.

Or that time we carried the claw food tub up the stairs. Another find from the free section on Craigslist. Me sweating/swearing (newly, unexpectedly pregnant) you singing Barrington Levy.

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