I’d like a job that I enjoy, that I could be really good at. A small apartment where I could have enough room for my books and clothes. Where I could have a pair of tall bookcases in the corner and a desk to write at next to the window so I could look out and wonder over the lives of those passing by. Maybe slipping a stranger into a story that perhaps one day they might read and think that character sounds a lot like them and isn’t that odd?
A second bedroom that’s actually the master with a pull out bed that never gets used and is covered in yards of fabric and trimmings, odds and ends. There might even be a dress form in the corner next to a large sewing table.
The second bedroom would be the one I would use because no matter how much I complain about how small my room is I’ve had over twenty years to become accustomed to sleeping in a cave. I’d have my glass figure collection and space enough for the things I really needed.
I’d keep fresh cut flowers and pick up a new bouquet whenever I came back from a trip.
It would be small and simple and perfectly mine.