Someday, Sarah, our ship will come in, and I’ll buy you a diamond as big as your eye and a mink coat to rival any movie star. And then, Sarah, I’ll move us back to the neighborhood we used to live in before we got priced out.

Just imagine, Sarah, our own row house, the very same one we rented for five years for seven hundred dollars per month before the owner evicted us to sell to a developer. Only this time, Sarah, the shag carpets will have been replaced with the finest and most homogenous gray composite flooring. It will be so easy to clean, Sarah. And so neutral it will offend no one.

Just think, Sarah, soon we’ll be sitting on our old back stoop, and instead of hearing a domestic dispute, we’ll be deafened by the roar of the newly-yet-shoddily-installed central air unit. Just imagine it, Sarah: You. Me. And the neighborhood we lived in for years but can no longer afford.

What do you think it will be like, Sarah? Will the streets be paved with gold? Will they at least have filled the pothole that once ripped the tire off your car? Perhaps they’ve even dealt with the rat problem. Or! Maybe they’ve retrained the rats—they’re exceptionally smart creatures—to tutor children so they have the best chance of getting into the neighborhood’s highly rated preschool. You remember the preschool, Sarah? The one that went in down the street from our rental, and we looked at it, then each other, and said, “Oh fuck” in unison. Because, Sarah, we knew what that meant.

But Sarah, when our ship comes in, it will all be different. And by different, I mean the exact same place we used to live but with like slightly better restaurants and different kinds of crime. Imagine us in the old neighborhood, with enough money to live in our old house and hire the most promising retrained rats to tutor our future children. I can almost see our darling Sarah Jr. and Clarence set up in what used to be that shitty pantry where the shelves would fall if you put too many cans on them. But now that pantry has new drywall and is called a “breakfast nook.” And our future children are sat there with two of the most sought-after rat tutors, learning the Pythagorean theorem. Imagine it, Sarah!

I dare say, Sarah, that I might even be able to go for a run in my shortest shorts without that guy who rides a bike only because he got a DUI calling me a queer—and not in the cool, reclaimed way, Sarah. For that, DUI-bike-man left the old neighborhood shortly after we did. And, yes, Sarah, it is pure irony that he also moved to our new neighborhood. But someday, Sarah, our ship will come in, and he won’t be there to shout homophobic slurs or comment on your tits, Sarah. And on that golden day, we’ll take advantage of all the little eateries and boutiques that have popped up since we were forced to leave, even the ones that seem like they don’t want to sell you anything but instead just curate like three types of vegan macarons, two shirts without price tags, and a jade plant. We will convince them to sell us some of those macarons, Sarah. And they will be delicious.

Yes, Sarah, I cannot wait for that day. You and me and our future children, returning to the old neighborhood like we never left, except that we won’t know anyone, because all our friends were forced out, too. But no matter, when our ship comes in, we’ll make new friends. Probably with the parents from that fancy preschool.

What’s that, Sarah? What’s that you’re reading in the newspaper? Amazon is considering putting a new headquarters in the old neighborhood? Well, fuck me with a shovel, Sarah. We’re screwed.