Amber
Simona’s house was a ten minute walk across Pullen Park from mine, but the difference in neighborhoods was stark. Mine was in a sad little part of Oakwood. It was one of the few streets that hadn’t been gentrified. Her house was a palace compared to my tiny apartment. It was inside a small loop at the top of a hill. The area was very secluded for being inside the city limits. Birds chirped in the trees, each lawn meticulously landscaped.
It was 7:55 a.m., and I stood outside on the sidewalk in awe of her house. It was huge. I needed to get this feeling out of my system before I went inside. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate having her home gawked at by me. White columns surrounded the porch, and though I wasn’t well-versed in architectural terms, I think it was Greek revival. It sat
