![]() Niko looks at August, hand held out, blurry in the steam from his tea. It’s not recognizable as Judy, except for the sign that says: HELLO MY NAME IS JUDY GARLAND. There’s a five-foot-tall sculpture of Judy Garland made from bicycle parts and marshmallow Peeps in the corner. The windows are the same painted-shut frames of old apartments in New Orleans, but these are half covered with pages of drawings, afternoon light filtering through, muted and waxy. ![]() Plants dangling off almost every surface, spindly arms reaching across shelves, a faint smell of soil. Small and cramped, offensive shades of green and yellow on the walls. The place is like that: a mix of familiar and very much not familiar. But when Tattoo Boy-Niko, the flyer said his name was Niko-sits across from her, it’s in a startlingly high-end Eames chair. Most of the furniture is as trash as the trash couch, mismatched and thrifted and hauled in off the street. The quintessential early twenties trash couch. The type you crash on, bury under textbooks, or sit on while sipping flat Coke and speaking to no one at a party. ![]() That’s the first thing the guy with the tattoos says when August settles onto the rubbed-off center cushion of the brown leather couch-a flaking hand-me-down number that’s been a recurring character the past four and a half years of college. SEEKING YOUNG SINGLE ROOMMATE FOR 3BR APARTMENT UPSTAIRS, 6TH FLOOR. ![]() Taped to a trash can inside the Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen at the corner of Parkside and Flatbush Avenues. ![]()
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