The property agent cancels at the last minute. “But the key’s in a lockbox so you can still go in and have a look at this beauty,” she assures us in her breezy, overconfident way. With some key-jiggling, I unlock the door to the recently advertised “Your New View Awaits - Classy 1 BDRM Walk-up”

I step inside, looping my finger around my purse strap, stretched as tight as it will go, and feel the purse’s weight bump against me, heavy as doubt.

Dave barges into the middle of the biggest room, clacking his hard-soled boots, and cocks an eye at the empty suite.

 “Um, your boots….,” I murmur. The hand-lettered sign in the main entrance said PLEASE REMOVE SHOES. “To keep the hardwood nice,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. Surely he sees me kneel down and undo my Mary Janes?

“Ha, who’s to tell them,” he says, stamping his boot to make a point.

I flinch. “Hm, hardwood means we’ll need rugs,” I say.

“Rugs. More shit,” he says. He sounds as weary as I feel.

Our heads swivel slowly as we take in the layout. Four walls, bland rental beige. This big area was designed to be a combined living room/ dining room. The dim overhead lighting at one end is boosted by natural light pouring in from a big window at the other end. Is it “us,” I wonder?

Outside, the traffic roars like petulant beasts excluded from a cave. The suite has a faint odor of smoke, fresh paint, and resettled dust. Better than most places we’ve viewed today. I’m just wondering whether the traffic noise is greater here, in the big room, or in the back when, improbably, I hear a sparrow. There is something uplifting in that small, defiant chirp.

One long wall has built-in shelving, the kind originally intended for books, except that some partitions have been removed, likely to accommodate an HD-TV. The shelves are barren, except for a half-empty take-out container, fork jutting from the congealed gravy. Like someone was called away unexpectedly. No, more likely, someone couldn’t be bothered.

He steps forward, clack, clack. I wince.

I pad in stocking feet to the big window, which is a bay window of three panes angled like a triptych shell. The sill is wide enough to comfortably sit on, maybe read a book. The sill could easily hold a bushy plant, one with glossy emerald leaves, to bask in the sunlight.

A long counter divides the combo living-dining room from the small kitchen.

In the kitchen, paint touch-ups, in a jarringly mismatched color, are daubed around the stove and electrical outlets. Some event can be reconstructed from the evidence. The fridge door is propped open, giving it a look of permanent surprise. A butcher’s block sits in the center of the kitchen. Stained. Minus the knives in its slots. I grip my purse.

Clack, clack, clack. He goes to the sink and turns the taps. No water. He dry-swallows his painkiller and grimaces. Five months since his accident; I remind myself he needs time and space to heal.

 “This is the last place today, okay?” I say softly. “It’s just that we need to—”

“I know! I know! Jeez!”

I look up at the ceiling and wonder what plaster damage the coat of fresh paint conceals. There are so many unknowns when choosing. One misread clue and you can spend years trying to untangle.

I feel his eyes slinking over me. I bought this stylish skirt and elegant top for my new job at the tourism bureau and chose to wear them today so we’ll look like responsible tenants. Something to offset his discolored T-shirt, ripped jeans, and biker boots.

We stroll to the bedroom. Its blinds are half-lowered, and the two windows look like sleepy eyes, sort of sexy. I touch my wedding ring and remember other empty bedrooms, times when we’d drag a mattress in before any of our other stuff. The joy of moving to a new place—and making it ours. I glance at him standing there with his hand on hip, chewing his toothpick.

“Big enough for queen size,” he says.

“More like double,” I say. “And even that will be tight.”

His fist closes over the decorative porcelain doorknob of the closet, and he wrenches it open. He yanks on the string of the bare lightbulb, illuminating floral wallpaper in a nightmarish flash. “This won’t be big enough for milady’s wardrobe.” His mouth turns down, a faintly disgusted look.

Blood swarms to my face. “I can manage,” I say. “It’s only a one-year lease.” I try to project positive vibes. I’m not even sure the job will last that long, but it’ll give us time to get back on our feet.

“Ha, we’ll see. A month from now, there’ll be twenny pairs of shoes in the hall.”

“It’s not that I want new togs,” I say, “but I need to look presentable…”

“Any excuse for shopping,” he says in a mocking singsong. His upper lip inches upward to a sneer. “Hey, I saw that clerk at that new boutique.” He deliberately mispronounces it as “bow-teek.”

“They’ve hired a ton of new staff,” I say neutrally. As if I didn’t know which guy he has in mind.

Clack, clack, clack. He prowls the perimeter of the bedroom as if sizing up a cage.

We drift back to the main area. He’s running his hands over the shelves. Like our last place, he would fill the neat compartments with his floorball trophies, his Olympic beer steins, his stacks and bunches and bundles of high-tech stuff, until we look like a pawn shop for electronics. The giant screen, hooked to cords and peripherals like vines around a temple, will occupy pride of place. I study the bay window and allow myself to picture a small cushion in the reading nook.

“We’ll need blinds,” he says.

“Already there,” I say, chin-pointing toward the bedroom.

“No, here.” He motions to the bay window. “Blackout blinds.”

“Natural lighting is a bonus,” I say. “We’ll save on electrical bills.”

“Sunlight causes glare on my screens,” he says. “Besides, what do I care about electricity bills?” he snorts. “It’s included in the rent.”

With his sinewy arms, he hoists himself up so he’s sitting on the counter, long legs hanging down. His ease of movement tells me the painkiller is fully absorbed. His lips curl thinly, an approximation of a smile. “C’mon, sit with me.” He pats the counter beside him as if summoning a dog.

“In a minute.” I walk around the counter to the kitchen, my eyes averted from the butcher block. I test the stove: every burner, except one, glows red. “Already a repair to request,” I tell him, tapping the right front element. Looking inside the propped-open fridge I see tell-tale mold stripes down the back. “And this fridge is on its last legs.”

“Well,” he says, “you’re the expert on the fridge.”

I ignore his insinuation. He reaches out and pulls me to him. “C’mon, let’s just take it.” His arms loosely encircle me, and he presses his sandpaper chin into my neck. “The best of a bad lot. What can you do?”

A pang of disappointment hits me. Decent appliances—not deluxe, simply decent, fully functioning appliances—would be nice.

“Our lil love nest,” he says sardonically. His words are slightly slurred and he over-enunciates. Has he been upping his meds? After a moment he heaves a sigh and snaps into a well-rehearsed persona. “Anyhow, the price is ridiculous,” he says in a harsh voice.

I steady myself against him, putting my hand on his shoulder. Sunlight glints off my wedding band. “All prices in this market are ridiculous,” I mutter. “Maybe if we paid a little more, though…” But what am I saying? He’s always been Mr. Bargain-Hunter. Even when we were both working full-time, flush with cash, he was miserly. Every year, as soon as the rent hike kicked in, he’d give notice and start looking for cheaper digs.

His jaw, scraping against my neck, tightens. I know that paying more, especially when he’s still on workers’ compensation, is anathema to him.

“Remember Melrose?” I say. Our first place, a communal house shared with dear friends. Full of dreams and gauzy optimism. Late nights of lovemaking, long mornings of lounging with job listings. Effortless rotation of cook/clean/wash duties between the six of us. Or was it effortless? Somehow, disagreements started breaking out. He started disputing his fraction of the bills, refusing to chip in on “over-priced scam-artist organic” groceries. I downplayed his negativity, telling the others he was just “careful with money.” Only later did I realize any dollar sign triggered an instinctive reflex in him to quarrel. By then, the Melrose house asked him to leave. I defended him, and out of loyalty, I left when he did.

“You’d never rip me off, would you?” his voice is plaintive. He grew up in poverty. No milk on his cereal. Sometimes, no cereal.

“Of course not,” I say, impatience straining my vocal cords. “Would you? Would you rip me off?” I flip the question, to show him how peculiar it is. We have a joint bank account—we set it up years ago, shortly before we were married so we had a “money pot” we could pay wedding expenses from. It’s our main account now.

Is it the pills? The prolonged inactivity? Sometimes he goes on a rant about things in the news, going on and on about divorce cases where one spouse, usually the wife, takes the other spouse “to the cleaners.”

He remains silent, pressing me to him. How can I counteract what is gnawing at his thoughts? Workers’ comp will come to an end: then what? I gently stroke his hair, wishing I could soothe his troubled soul. He pushes my hand away, but keeps a grip on my waist. Mixed message.

The sparrow chirps again. I pull away from Dave and pad to the bay window, where I see one windowpane is partially ajar. My abrupt appearance, unintentionally menacing, startles the sparrow and it flits away. Small creatures have such an aversion to sudden movement by bigger creatures. Hardwired for preservation.

Finger looped around my purse strap, I turn back to survey the room. The built-in shelves he will claim; the hardwood I’ll need to constantly protect; the bay window will soon become a battleground. Again, I feel the heaviness.

But the heaviness, it occurs to me, is not doubt.

“About that bedroom,” I say to him. “A single would fit better than a double.” I make my way to the exit without looking back.

The End