A Place of My Own

It’s one of those days. I wake up in the morning to the clanking of plates in the kitchen and the roar of the coffee-grinder. I close my eyes and wait for the aroma of the freshly brewed beans to reach my senses. It does. But perhaps I’m being a bit too romantic and I quickly try to shake it away, because I realize that it’s my 60-year-old landlord in the other room.

I hide underneath the covers and anticipate the moment when I will have the apartment to myself. My mind starts fantacizing pictures of an oversized mouth-watering breakfast – of scrambled eggs and ham, and a steaming pot of coffee. My coffee, that I would make in my little pot, and place it on my kitchen table. With my own two hands.

I am not a possessive person; let’s get this straight. And yet, it’s hard not to want to get out of bed, turn the music on and dance around in my PJs; I would love to sing along and have only my own four walls listening to me; to go into my kitchen and make myself my very own oversized sandwich together with a super-sized dose of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Not possessive, I said? I might reconsider.

- Mina Nacheva