the apartment

It went without saying. It was like saying she wanted to find happiness or enlightenment. Or like saying she wanted to live in that top floor Apartment with the roof of skylights at the triangular corner where Division Street meets Canal Street. Of course, who wouldn't? She had admired It from afar, from as close as she could get, on the sidewalk below, always peering into those plentiful windows facing Ludlow Street.
Perhaps not everyone would want that Apartment, thought Chloe. Though it took up the entire top floor, it was small, inside an edifice with a crumbling facade and a forever-shuttered storefront on the bottom. But that was what made it special. So unusual, so mysterious, so quiet, so thoughtful, so perfect. Whenever she walked within sight of the red triangular building, even from Essex Street, The Apartment sang to her, to the world. She imagined herself living there, knowing precisely where she would put her piano (by the East-facing window). She imagined sleeping there, with the peaceful sunlight wrapping its arms around her in late afternoon slumber. She thought of all the happiness that apartment could have shown her, or perhaps could still show her.
But then all of sudden, she hated The Apartment's guts. How dare it stand there, appearing at least two days a week, tall and aloof and handsome. Singing songs and living its own exciting life. Offering glimpses through its windows, tales of happiness and of the young love for which she longed, tales being lived by another who was not her and who would never be her.