*** ‘Vignette City’ is an ongoing project of daily writing and urban photography ***
In reality, the building is old.
Two stories of damp brick resting on a story of gray stone and masonry.
Who could know these things?
Twenty small units inside. The wood floors still original, largely. Inartful patchwork ribbons of wood around the radiators, which were replaced after one of the wars, but before one of the others. In 205, the second floor at the back corner, facing out at the rainy dog park, an obese cat like a roly-poly panther, weighs enough to make the floors creak as she trumbles over to the window, focuses up at the windowsill, tenses her girthy body. Leaps. Lands there, skitteringly. Plops her body and gazes out at the dogs; dashing, darting, leaping. Dogs. Idiots.