They lived there young in the old building. The sun was old but seemed new then too. It clearly knew the morning, dearly warmed the day, nearly broke their hearts while surrendering to gloaming. The building was made of brick and the walls were thick enough to work with the steam heater that stood under the window by the rusting balcony. Single window panes smelled lightly of vinegar but never quite gave up their dried specks of turquoise paint along the borders. The couple could smell neighbors' meals up and down the street: cabbage and pork and rich sauces and fried potatoes and curry and meatloaf and baked desserts, and they heard the chorus of those daily lives like sounds on the wing. In summer, during heatwaves, thin mattresses covered the balconies and excited children climbed fire escapes and swore they would not sleep but the cool of the night won, and dreams went deep. Once, when they lived there young in the old building and lounged atop a mattress on the rusting balcony in a moonlit heatwave, they locked in passion and went deep in the cool of night and escaped to a dreamworld as hot as the sun.
Written for The Mag: Mag 207 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien).