That Studio

Image: Crew

On our backs in your full-size bed, staring at the ceiling, talking over the soft, nasally sound of James Taylor coming through the iPod stereo with the bad connection. We were always just a few steps away from everything else inside that studio. The kitchen. The bathroom. The living room. The front door.

It was a cocoon of solitude on the northern edge of a big, beautiful, bustling city. Me, a small town boy. And you, the uptown girl.

We were the whole of each other’s world. Just you and I. One as one-hundred percent of the other.

The hardwood floors. The cracked walls. The black and white checkered tiles. The old TV.

The annoying cigarette smoke that crept through your window from your downstairs neighbor’s window, offset by the morning light filtering through the brick-lined alley and pouring into your kitchen.

We’d make slow meals, watch full movies, have big conversations, and go explore the city together for hours with nothing else to worry about besides the challenge of making this thing work. To be closer. And to keep this feeling forever.

More bits and bops from Jonas Ellison