I haven't been living in my fancy apartment long enough to work out which is the half-flush and which is the full, but my first experience of apartment living has been revelatory in other ways. First revelation, it only takes about a week to adjust to soft closing cupboards and drawers. You realise this the first time you close a normally-hinged cupboard or toilet after that first week. It took about two weeks to lose the concept of "bin night". It took about five seconds to forget the importance of lawn maintenance.
I found it interesting that in my fiction writing of the past decade almost all of my characters have lived in apartments, despite me having very little experience with them (in fact, I went to an apartment once last year and I mentally took notes on what apartments were actually like, for future reference.) I think the reason all my characters lived in apartments was because they all worked in cities and by making them live in apartments next to their work I didn't have to write about their commutes, meaning I could sidestep any temptation to make them catch public transport and dwell on the microcosm of society that was crammed behind the automatically closing doors.
And, other than having an apartment that is so well insulated that fruit ripens in less than a day with the doors closed, apartment living is not much different to house living. Although some days I do have déjà vu-esque connections to Balboa Towers lifestyle.
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.