My whole apartment is my femme cave.
It was hard leaving my lover's house (harder to stay there, of course), so to keep myself strong I treated myself to a lot of new things—turquoise faux-velvet curtains and matching pillow shams, also deep reds, and a few other things that make me feel good.
My gold leather love seat and arm chair took a beating at her house (the kid acted out once, grinding his gritty shoe soles into the couch seat, and the housekeeper cleaned them with goo-gone, long story), but they survived, a bit shabbier for wear, as was most of my stuff.
We all made it out, I guess I'm saying. I have my few chunks of furniture, and my 10 x 18 black-and-oatmeal low-pile wool rug that looks great with the gold and turquoise. I have the oval formica-and-chrome kitchen table my sweet boyfriend in college gave me, matching chrome chairs, and a large red-and-grey braided rug I had made a long time ago for my and N's kitchen that looks incredibly good with them.
I feel soothed when I walk in the door. I sit in the big armchair facing the windows and there's a balcony with a 9th-floor view of roof tops and trees. At night I can see what first looks like a star, but turns out to be a jet coming in to LaGuardia every minute or so. You can't hear them, but the big, flickering star that expands as it gets closer at night makes me feel good for some reason. I feel lucky to be here. Yeah, this is my cave.
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