I live in my rental home with several roommates. The house's mortgage costs $5200 a month, and two of my fellow tenants recently left.
I went down into the finished basement a little while ago because the tenenat who vacated failed to turn off all of the lights. The space, approximately the size of a one-bedroom apartment, looked clean and empty. I paced aimlessly, my socks gently scuffling on the laminate floor. I played with the kitchennete's light switches and listened to the furnace's hum from the utility room. I smelled faint muskiness. Everything in order, I returned upstairs.
The humidity outside has crept inside. The remnants of the storm earlier today, which momentarily caused a tornado warning to disrupt work, linger deviously. Late-night exhaustion has given way to an indulgent delerium. I returned to my kitchen from downstairs to heat up a snack: frozen brussel-sprouts. I sat on my loveseat recliner while I waited for them to cook. I looked through the open blinds in front of me and fancied, in the hot and murky darkness, someone watching me. Would they break inside and live in my basement like a parasite? Or will I find a reliable replacement tenant to live down there? Or will I go bankrupt and lose the house?
I think a recent power surge messed up the range oven since the inside seemed to generate heat without anyone asking. I looked up what to do and turned off the breaker to the oven. Hopefully when I get up in the morning, I will find coldness there instead.
Owning a home has filled me with marvel and dread.