Page 72 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Though I’d seen the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows when I’d toured the historic apartment building, I set down the box I was cradling in my arms to join the building manager at the windows. The living room wall of the apartment I had signed a lease for was nothing but glass. From the tenth floor of the building, they provided a spectacular view of Minneapolis. Even though it was a dreary day, as we were moving into autumn once again, the view was awe-inspiring.

The Regal Building—an old gothic-inspired red brick and white limestone high-rise in downtown Minneapolis—had been remodeled into an apartment building and had been doing business as such for ten years. When I’d gone in search of a new place of my own in my new homeland, I’d intended on finding a simple studio apartment. One that was spartan and met my basic needs. Life had taught me to live with very little, so that decision had seemed logical. Why spend more money than necessary if less will do fine?

After living in the spare room of one of Alex’s Minneapolis friends for two months, that lesson had been solidified. I could make do with little.

However, upon touring The Regal Building on a whim while apartment hunting, I became enamored with the stained concrete floors, gothic fixtures, industrial ductwork, and modern kitchens and bathrooms. The juxtaposition of a long-gone era meeting modern amenities was perfect—like being stuck in two different times. The floor-to-ceiling windows that made the living room glow golden in the early morning hours, then bright white and warm in the afternoon, sealed the deal.

It was like standing on a platform in heaven when I was in the living room. I could see forever. I felt close enough to the clouds to touch them. Light from the sun beating down on the glass all day warmed the living room comfortably. It was home the moment I stepped inside the apartment.

“You’ve already got my signature and money,” I teased the woman, Bethany.

She cackled.

Pleasant, if not a bit crass, I’d also fallen in love with the building manager during my tour. I knew that she would be easy to get along with and fair. She wouldn’t intrude on my privacy any more than necessary, but she wouldn’t treat me like a stranger. Bethany also seemed to run a tight ship. Everything was clean and functioning as it should. Things seemed to be quickly fixed when inevitable problems arose. And she had no tolerance for problematic tenants. At least, this was all relayed to me by other renters when I had been touring the building.

So, The Regal Building had to be my home. Things were perfect at work, I was making plenty of money, and I wanted an apartment that felt like a home. That felt special. There was no reason for me not to sign a one-year lease. For once, I indulged a whim.

“Well,” Bethany said with a sigh, “I hope you’re happy here, Enzo. I like my tenants to be happy.”

She turned, intending to make her exit, so I followed her, intending to show her out as a polite person would.

“If you have any problems, you let me know immediately, okay?” she asked. “And don’t let me hear about you causing any problems, either.”

I laughed. “I only work and eat dinner in front of the television.”

“You’ll be a perfect tenant,” she laughed with me as I opened the door for her. “Have fun unpacking.”

“I will.”

“Welcome home again, Enzo.”

With that, Bethany headed down the hallway to the elevator. So, I let the door glide gently shut, making sure it did not slam, and slowly turned around to look at the wall of windows again. I smiled at the golden light as it streamed into the barren living room. It would be a few days until I could procure living room furniture…but I was home. I had a bed and bedding. A single comfortable chair for the living room. I had clothes and toiletries. I would walk down to the corner grocery store to stock my refrigerator before the night was over. It would be enough to get me through a few nights.

After so many months as an interpreter for Source Language, Inc., I’d been given the option to work from home. Living in Alex’s friend’s spare room had made that impossible. Now that I had my own home, Mr. Barton had approved for me to transfer to working from home. So, that was one more thing on my to-do list. Be up bright and early the following morning for the tech guy from work to come to install my workstation. I had to have my desk set up so that he could do so, and it was disassembled in an oblong box in the bedroom.

That would need to be done.

Put the desk together.

Buy groceries.

Unpack my suitcases and put my clothes away.

Make the bed.

Be available for the company to deliver my washer and dryer.

“I need a sofa,” I said aloud to no one.

The television I had purchased—though nowhere near as fancy or large as the one Peter and I had—was in a box in the corner of the living room, waiting to be used. Sitting in front of the television to eat dinner without a sofa to curl up on after I’d eaten would be a struggle for a few days. Somehow, I’d manage. I smiled to myself at the thought. The one chair I’d bought would do until I could get to a furniture store in the next few days. I wouldn’t be finicky. Any decent sofa that wasn’t hideous and could be delivered the same day or the next would be perfect.

Preferably something sturdy and cheap. I’d already convinced myself to splurge on my actual home, there was no need to throw money around every chance that presented itself. Green. A green sofa would be perfect. Deep with soft cushions that begged to be napped on. Nothing is more satisfying than a lazy weekend afternoon nap on a comfortable sofa as the sun shines down on you through the window. When it’s a sunny day, anyhow.

Having no one to respond to my statement made my excitement for a new sofa abate.

It had been so long since I’d had no one to talk to and share my innocuous thoughts with each day. Even living with a virtual stranger—Alex’s friend—I’d had someone to talk to at home. We hadn’t become incredibly close, Alex’s friend and me, but we were friendly. It’s nearly impossible to live with someone for more than a few days and not become friendly.

Paloma, a middle-aged Hispanic woman who lived in an old Victorian house she’d inherited from her grandmother, had taken me in when I left my home with Peter. She knew nothing of me or what I would be like to live with, but at Alex’s request for a favor, she had welcomed me with open arms. All alone in the three-story house, she had seemed glad to fill some of the empty space, even if it was only the guest room and spare bathroom.