My apartment is small. It’s a townhouse, part of a small complex. It may be nice, but the eastern windows face a row of real houses. Every day as I wash my carrots, I look at the neighbors’ houses, with their laughing children and kittens and white picket fences and dainty gardens, and a little knot of envy curls around my throat. So I scrub my carrots, methodically, one after the next. I pretend they are the fingers of my neighbors, and I bite their tips, savoring the crisp crackle on my lips. This is my catharsis.