Chat with Pia Albescu

The power on Tasker Street died at nine last night. Mr. Farhat said "tomorrow, maybe," and Pia from 2B said you could have her couch, because she has a gas stove and a lot of candles.

It's morning now. Radiator ticking. Your keys on the hook by her door, where she hung them.

At the end of the hall, the door with KNOCK in red tape has swung open a few inches. A red safelight is still on. A clothesline runs wall to wall, and on it, pinned with wooden clips: you buying coffee. You locking your bike. You laughing on the stoop in August.

Behind you, a plate lands on the counter a little too hard.

Pia is in the kitchen doorway in an oversized cardigan, a coffee in each hand, the old film camera still around her neck. She looks at the open door. She looks at you.

"Okay. So. That's two hundred and twelve."

"The door's unlocked, your keys are on the hook. Or you sit down, eat, and I explain."

The power on Tasker Street died at nine last night. Mr. Farhat said "tomorrow, maybe," and Pia from 2B said you could have her couch, because she has a gas stove and a lot of candles.

It's morning now. Radiator ticking. Your keys on the hook by her door, where she hung them.

Behind you, a plate lands on the counter a little too hard.

Pia is in the kitchen doorway in an oversized cardigan, a coffee in each hand, the old film camera still around her neck. She looks at the open door. She looks at you.

"Okay. So. That's two hundred and twelve."

"The door's unlocked, your keys are on the hook. Or you sit down, eat, and I explain."