“With excellent natural light.”
“And one parking spot.”
“Deeded parking.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
We had spent months rebuilding something neither of us had understood was fragile. Not love. Love had survived surprisingly well. What had been fragile was the belief that love automatically created understanding. A year after the night I found my belongings in the hall, I stood outside Unit 2902 holding two keys. Michael came up beside me.
“What are those?”
“The new building security fobs.”
“You’re giving me access?”
“You live here.”
“I know.”
“Michael.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny.”
“Barely.”
Inside, the condo looked different. Because we’d finally made deliberate decisions about what belonged there. His father’s lamp sat beside my grandmother’s reading chair. The wedding photograph remained in the entryway, but beside it sat another picture. Michael and Linda at the closing for his Rogers Park condo. Linda looked proud. Michael looked embarrassed. Some things didn’t change. Linda came for dinner twice a month now. More importantly, she had stopped giving Michael advice before asking whether he wanted it.
