Flat 92

He came up the elevator and exited into a hallway. To the right, through an entryway and to the left. It was easy enough to spot, the movers where busily carrying her boxes and containers inside. The heavy wooden door was propped open and the blue sign above that read simply “92” in white industrious numbers. She had moved to escape, he thought he had known what she was distancing herself from at the time. As he entered the flat, the energy present was calm, relaxed, and inviting. Nothing like the last one.

He helped where he could. Placing a throw here and organizing the refrigerator, small things he thought would make the transition easier. He adored her and knew under her hard shell there was an amazing person. As the movers finished and took their leave, and the cluttered boxes began to become less of an obstacle, he leaned his shoulder onto the wall and took a present moment to take a deep breath. It surprised him when she rested her head on his shoulder and said in a sweet voice, “I think I am going to like it here, thank you for all your help.”

She asked him to stay, and he did. She was as deep and fierce as the Ocean and he was thankful to be in her presence. Over time they collected new memories. New candles that filled the space with heavenly aroma. A vintage gramophone created a series of gentle, calming music that made the flat come to life around them. Pillows, accents, and art that brought the space to life and made it their own. They shared laughs and tears in this space. If they were running, they were running together.

Daily, he was amazed by her depth and intelligence. She was caring and kind. They hosted gatherings small and large. There where intense conversations that lead deep into the night and days of lazily watching their favorite shows. The future vision they shared was universally magical. All that ended though. Suddenly, abruptly, in a derailing mixture of sorrow and dread. He received word that he would have to relocate for work. He would be on the other side of the world; they knew this would come eventually and had discussed it in depth. They agreed that their love was stronger than any amount of distance, they were wrong. She was the Ocean, and he was hardly a stone. He felt the depth of her love. She felt nothing.

“Three years” the words were hard for him to say. When the doorman asked me how long he had been away he did not have to think about it. Truthfully, he knew down to the day. He exited the elevator, a right and a left. The same door. The same blue metal label above it. As he opened the door slowly and entered the room, he became painfully aware, nothing was the same. The memories remained, but the energy had shifted. Maybe it was a mistake to come back here, maybe he should have found a different space to live out his isolation. All the same he was a stone, still drowning in the ocean. The things that made this space a home were removed. No candles filled the air with heavenly aroma, instead it was stuffy and old. The refrigerator had been emptied to long and the smell of cold plastic flowed from within. The room in which his heart had grown full mirrored the void he felt inside. This was Flat 92 and it was am agonizing reminder of the depth they once shared.

Nonetheless, he had his things moved in. The process what slower this, his days were forever touched with a stain of agony. He did not get new candles or art. The walls remained bare. He hosted no gatherings of any kind. He worked. He ate. He slept. He tried to move on as best he could. Mostly, he was successful his energy began to shift. Slowly, he found the beauty in art again. Cautiously, he played the old vinyl that they loved so much. He spent extraordinarily little time outside this space. This space was safe. Out the elevator, a right then a left, walking though that old wooden door that contained all of his remaining love inside these walls. Out the elevator, a right then a left, “Oh excuse me, I hardly saw you I wasn’t paying much attention at all,” he did not remember a neighbor across the hall in Flat 93, honestly, he had not cared to know.

“No, No I am sorry it’s been a long day at work, and I am miles away in my mind,” She was carrying a box full of dusty records stacked so high she could barley see. “I am trying to expand my collection and I seem to have left my key down in the car.”

“Would you like some help with those boxes?” He wanted more than anything to retreat to the solace of his isolation, but he knew the universe leaned towards kindness. He helped her carry the box of records as she returned with her key. Out the elevator, to the right then right again, through a wooden door under a blue sign with white letter that read simply “93”.  This space was different, not entirely different form his own. The energy here was that of longing silence, of strength after a storm. They spent that night, enjoying the additions to her collection and sharing a meal and a glass of wine.

Out of the door, straight across the hallway, through the wooden door into Flat 92. He felt a new energy. The growth he had done was finally come to fruition, he felt at peace ad hi lit his candles and put on his records. He had traveled around the world and sank through the ocean. Carried by a current he had not asked for or perceived, he had found his way back to shore. This was not their Flat 92. That space was gone, demolished through the sorrow and pain of things unseen. This was now his Flat 92, and he felt that he was finally Home.