Jonny Martin

Gold Roses

I’ll always remember that apartment on Wilcox. The worked-in sofa that was somehow light and dark green at the same time. The seldom functioning A/C which lead us to prop open the windows and invite in the smell of pastries, fresh or rotten depending on the wind. The ornate-but-chipped ceramic bowl by the front door where Will and I left our keys, loose change and the occasional almond. It had a certain charm you would only understand if you had lived there for two years, like we did.