That night I dreamed of the days I’d spent moving into
Maplewood Crest with Graham.
At twenty-one, I’d been completely sick of living with my
parents and being dependent on my financially stable (yet superficial) friends
from high school and Graham, taking pity on me, had invited me to live with him
instead.
Originally, I’d been a little reluctant – even given my
circumstances. When I’d first been to Graham’s apartment, it had been a
complete bachelor pad – leather furniture in the living room and chrome stainless
steel fixtures, with state of the art technology throughout the place. It was
also a REALLY nice apartment on the good side of town, a place I could never
afford (and I was adamant that if I was going to live with anyone, I was going
to pay a substantial amount of the rent and grocery bill).
Seeing my reluctance, Graham made me a second offer: as his
lease was ending anyway and he traveled so damn often he never spent any time
at his apartment, if I could find a more affordable apartment closer to where
he worked, he would move in with me and split the cost of rent. On top of that,
I could furnish and decorate it however I wanted.
Tempted, I began searching and after only a couple laborious
hours of research I’d found it – Maplewood Crest which, while kind of shitty,
was in my price range and just a fifteen-minute drive from Graham’s office.
In the week leading up to moving day, painting started. The
kitchen became a warm and inviting yellow, the guest bathroom a deep red, the
living room an icy blue, etc., etc.
Graham had originally told me he wanted no say in what the
apartment’s interior looked like, but I insisted he at least decide on things
having to do with his room, since even if he was never in apartment 646, he would occasionally be sleeping there.
Relenting, he chose a blue several shades darker than the one I’d painted mine.
When the paint finished drying, furniture was brought in.
Graham’s room remained mostly bare, with lots of places around the room where
things could be stored out of the way. The kitchen too, remained within his
domain, spotlessly clean and uncluttered. I’d banned most of his old furniture
from the new apartment and instead filled it with old tables, chairs and bed
frames found at thrift stores, antique stores, and garage sales in and around
the city. The only new furniture items were one of his nice leather ottomans
and a multitude of bookshelves since neither one of us had enough space to keep
all of our books.
On moving day, all that was left to bring in were our
clothes, books, movies, and some other electronics Graham claimed he couldn’t
live without. When Graham entered the apartment for the first time, it was love at first sight. He'd spent most of his childhood in a place where one could touch almost nothing and I'd filled 646 with furniture that had been not only touched, but had been broken in with careless affection. It was the exact opposite from what he'd known most of his life he told me, and, not only that, what he'd always really wanted.
After unpacking the boxes and putting everything in its proper
place on that cold November day, Graham laid down on my battered new couch and
I curled up in one of his cozy old blankets on a worn wingback chair and
breathed sighs of relief that all the work was over and we could enjoy the decrepit
apartment for what it really was – home.
