The glowing, floated windows on my walk back to 426 Lafayette

Just got off from my part-time shift at NYU’s new Downtown Brooklyn building. Though tired and craving dinner, I decided, as usual, to walk back home to save money. I enjoy the 25-minute walk, though. Starting from Jay St–MetroTech station, I head east along Willoughby Street, toward Clinton Hill. The shared rental apartment with my Taiwanese friends is near the Classon Av station, on Lafayette Avenue. Sometimes I continue down Willoughby, cutting through Fort Greene Park to absorb some lively energy, and take a look at Pratt’s campus to imagine the art student life I could’ve had, before turning right onto Classon Avenue to reach home. But today, I’m taking Fulton Street, then Lafayette Avenue — following the G train’s underground trajectory.

Summer is ending, and the evening air is starting to feel a bit chilly. As I pass the intersection of Fulton Street and Lafayette Avenue, I begin to hear and feel the constant roar and rumble of the G trains beneath me. It’s odd — how come when I want to take the train, they never arrive on time, but whenever I walk, they’re always busy underground? Never mind. It is what it is.

The trains are loud — maybe because they have to climb this gentle slope before reaching Clinton–Washington Av station? In contrast, when no trains are running, the neighborhoods along this route always feel calm; at least before approaching Classon. Lafayette Avenue is a one-way street, and right now, I’m walking through its most beautiful stretch, where a canopy of trees arches overhead and brick row houses line both sides. The sun is setting behind me, casting everything in a glowing shade of gold — a warm and peaceful moment in the middle of busy New York City. I love this scene.

As I near the top of the slope, the sky grows darker. Around this time, instead of being lit by natural light, the brick row houses begin to glow from within — illuminated by the lights turned on by the people living inside.

I stop in front of a dark red, brick-walled house and look up at a window on the second floor. The first thing I see is a rectangular metallic grey surface with a perfectly centered Apple logo. Right beside the iMac, near the edge of the window, sits a cluster of plants. In the corner, a minimalist-style lamp casts a warm yellow glow. The light gently reveals part of a painting on the wall, and a cabinet filled with books beside it, until all of it fades into a soft, distant darkness.

I restart my walk. As I stride forward, instinctively avoiding bits of random garbage and tree roots along the path, my mind begins to wander. I can’t help but think about the dark, invisible part of that warm, glowing room — the part I couldn’t see.

I’m tempted to imagine a life inside it. Maybe the owner is a guy around 35, working in the art or design industry. His job pays well enough, and his hours and location are flexible. His greatest strength is his aesthetic taste, clearly reflected in his space: Swiss Style posters on the wall, a minimalist desk and chair, and a bookshelf filled with titles spanning philosophy, design, art, physics, economics, and finance. A vinyl record player sits beside a rack of records — classic rock, hip-hop, and classical music from around the world.

He also enjoys coffee — not obsessing over the finest quality, but appreciating the process of making it and the energizing scent that fills the room. His tiny coffee station is tucked beside the music section, with everything analog and simple: a Comandante manual grinder, Hario V60 dripper with a pack of brown filters, black Fellow kettle, TIMEMORE scale, and a MUJI cup.

Basically, the room is a temple of everything he loves and enjoys. Having this room makes him happy.

“I want a room like that,” I think. “Someday, I’ll have a room that makes me happy too.”

The thought grows stronger as I pass more glowing, floated windows along the way. As the sun finally sets and the sky darkens, these illuminated windows become display cases — each one selling me a vision of happiness I haven’t yet owned.

I feel a hint of sadness. But somehow, the distant warmth and that imagined life get woven into a soft, cozy blanket that wraps around me and comforts me.

Someday. Someday I’ll have the room I want.

A sudden gust of wind from below and a loud screech snap me out of my dream-walk through these imagined rooms. It’s another G train passing through. I’m back on Lafayette Avenue, and Classon Av station is right in front of me. 426 Lafayette — the building where I share an apartment with my Taiwanese roommates — is just a few steps away. I guess they’re both off work and class too. Maybe we’ll have dinner together in our small but cozy kitchen-living room, talking about our days over the counter.

I take one last glance at the windows still glowing and floating behind me. Their warmth lingers.

Someday.

Note:

This piece is based on memories from my time in the ITP graduate program at NYU, around 2019 to 2020. During my first year in 2018, I commuted from Brooklyn to Manhattan because ITP was located at 721 Broadway. After my first year, and from my second year onward, ITP moved to a new floor in NYU’s Downtown Brooklyn building — close enough for me to walk back to my apartment at 426 Lafayette Avenue.