There is a mystery rising around the corner from my home in Northeast D.C. Its reveal has been slow: one floor at a time, the metal skeleton taking shape over months. The work seems to sputter on and off, and several times I’ve wondered if something went wrong. The money ran out. Or the inspectors caught wind.
The neighborhood is scattered with projects that were begun and abandoned. My favorite suspended remodel still has a poster in the window in the future-is-already-past verb tense unique to real estate: “Coming in summer of 2012.”