by Janet Levinson
“Who the hell put the spoon in the slot with the cake forks?” he fumed, holding the wooden drawer in his hands.
“Me, you idiot. I am the only other person who lives in this dump.”
Did it really matter? The lopsided drawer wouldn’t close anyways, leaving the utensils mixed with leftover crumbs and dust. Everything was off in this tiny shack, on a block with other tiny shacks, all covered with blue tarps.
The water had come rushing in so fast that most people just stayed and hoped for the best. Now we stayed hoping someone would come help us rebuild. It has been two years, and millions of arguments just like the one about the spoon.
“Why do you insist on keeping your clothes on the floor? I have to step over them just to get into bed,” hissed my husband of three years.
“The rod in the closet is gone. So where should I put them?” My teeth were clenched, holding back an avalanche of tears.
He held his breath and his words for a moment, gearing up for another onslaught, which gave me enough time to blurt out, “What about the dishes in the sink—the bathroom sink!”
But I knew the answer. Where else could he wash them when the kitchen drain pipe had snapped off in the flood?
Janet Levinson is a senior at NYU School of Professional Studies majoring in Art History. Born and raised in New York, she built her own insurance brokerage business while raising her three children. Upon their graduation from college, Janet decided it was time to pursue her own degree hoping her studies at NYU would lead to her next career in the art or literary world. In addition to managing her insurance business and coursework, Janet carves out time to pursue her other interests which include re- designing neglected residential real estate, painting, dancing and cooking for her husband and children.