Rooming with strangers a game of trust in Brooklyn
“Do we still have a TV?”
That’s the text message I got from my husband as I walked up the steps to our Brooklyn apartment on a Friday afternoon this fall. I was fairly sure that we did. I opened the door. Cats, check. TV, check.
He needed to know because we’d just entrusted a stranger, by most senses of the word, with keys to our home and with it, access to everything we own. It was with the same implicit trust she’d placed in us when she asked to spend a couple of nights on our futon, sight unseen.