One Year Later...

... we find our heroine sitting in her apartment, furiously pecking away at her keyboard because she still hasn't learned how to touch-type. One year later, she is still in school, pursuing her undergrad degree, although she now has a sense of urgency that never existed before her 27th birthday. She gazes around at her surroundings, fondly reminiscing about the day she moved in, one year ago.

She silently catalogs the minor shifts and changes that were never made.

"Those curtains still need to be lined."
"The front hall's closet door is still broken."
"That picture still needs to be hung."

She notes the changes that were made, and she is quietly triumphant.

"I like that new bedspread."
"Those flower boxes are nice."
"I'm so glad I changed that rug."

Minor accomplishments and small defeats color her memories from the past year of existing in this residence. She is still single and lonely. She still smokes more than she'd like to admit. She has learned more than three chords on her guitar, but she has retired the keyboard (for the time being). She has switched jobs three times and changed her name once, only to change it back, almost immediately. She has cultivated a love for cooking and cleaning, though she still loathes doing her dishes. She eats better. She laughs more. She wakes up early and remembers birthdays. She writes regularly. She hates what she writes semi-regularly. She makes attempts to get paid for writing, but she is convinced that everyone else hates what she writes also.

She has lived in this apartment for one year, today. For the moment, she is pleased with the past year and is looking forward to another. She wishes they hadn't raised the rent on her. This next year had better be worth it. She expects it will.