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 Sleeping With the Enemy
by Grant Stoddard
In New York, high rent is the catalyst for cohabitation among those who should know better. This is how the madness typically begins: you get involved with someone; soon you can't get enough of each other. Nights spent alone although probably healthy aren't as fun. You start going back to your apartment less and less. Hers is larger/cleaner/closer to the subway. Eventually you're only going home to pick up your mail. You are now paying the better part of a thousand dollars to store a bed that's hardly slept in and some clothes you hardly wear your six most regularly worn outfits have been transplanted into your new squeeze's closet. Being young and/or just out of college, you don't have much money, and your roommate smells atrocious and never buys toilet paper and you had reservations about him from the start anyway and realize that if you move in with your girl/boy you'll have several hundred extra dollars per month for fancy dinners, crazy nights out, spontaneous gifts for each other and fun weekends away and soon you're looking at each other over a wonderful post-shagathon Sunday brunch and listing reasons why living together makes sense.
I mean, you kind of are anyway, right?
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