The Glass Door
By Georgette Gouveia
Mornings were the hardest. Mornings she woke from the dreams of the night—filled as they were with dead relatives and equally dead celebrities—to the dreams of the day, with their fat, chirping birds and lush gardens, devoid of people. She was among the many fortunate ones who worked from home, tucked away in co-ops and condos or, in her case, a two-family house in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn where she hung on to a writing gig with a travel magazine whose offices lay just across the bridge in that borough that lorded it over the others. It might as well have been another universe. And whenever she had to commute from Brooklyn into Manhattan, it really did seem as if it were.
But Brooklyn offered her a lovely little slice of heaven in a home she
