New York isn’t typically known for its palatial living spaces. More often than not, you’ll find yourself squished into what feels like a broom closet, with all your earthly possessions, wondering why you bothered to accumulate so many damn things in the first place. I’ve been in New York for almost four years, and in that time, I have lived in exactly four itty-bitty teeny-weeny spaces, piling books, shoes, and clothes around me in varying creative and sometimes precariously balanced constructions in order to create what amounts to little more than the illusion of breathing space.
I’ve also always had between one and four roommates, making for some interesting and quickly adopted intimacies. The combination of small spaces and the presence of roommates make a lot of things tricky — solving the mystery of who ate all the eggs, for instance — but nothing is trickier than lumping in dating with these already high-tension elements.