I returned the following morning, and an administrator—without even taking the pencil out of her mouth—informed me, “We’re in the process of painting several rooms. Go toThe Y!”
“It’s full there,” I lied, having never considered YWCA. I kept thinking about the article in Cosmo and said, “I’ll paint a room, if I can stay.”
I was glad to find 501 was at the end of the hall; not squeezed between two rooms. A cot was shoved against a wall. There was a thickly painted white dresser with a matching desk opposite it.
I pulled down the shade, thinking how claustrophobic 501 already seemed.