The air smells so clean. I sit on the naked mattress and breathe it in.
The mattress is pretty comfortable. It’s firm, not the memory foam cloud Sam and I shared, but it’s better than the pullout. I’m grateful this apartment came furnished. Any furniture I had was actually Sam’s, or it was so cheap it was falling apart and wouldn’t have survived the journey.
Back in the living room, there’s a door sandwiched between the bedroom on the left and the front door on the right. It leads to a tiny bathroom, barely big enough to turn around in. Tub, sink, toilet.
There’s a mirror above the sink. I press it and it swings open toward me, revealing an empty medicine cabinet. I leave it open, mirror to the wall. I absolutely do not need to see what I look like right now.
I leave the bathroom and explore the rest of the apartment. At the back, there’s a small dining area with a round midcentury table-and-chair set. There are two windows, and between them is a tall reedy plant I apologize to in advance. I’ve got a poor track record with plants. It’s not neglect; if anything, it’s overattentiveness. I obsessively water, readjust, ask how they’re feeling, if they need anything. Maybe more sunlight? I exhaust them to death.
I’ve got dirt on my hands.
I wonder if that’s what happened to my relationship. Did I exhaust Sam? His love for me?
Or was it the opposite? Did I not give him the same love and attention I give to houseplants?
I sigh, position myself inside the left window and rest my head against the glass. It’s cool, and it relaxes me immediately.
I look out to the backyard. It gets lovely shade, surrounded on all sides by dense woods. I watch the leaves gleam in the afternoon sun, shimmy in the breeze.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket.
Sam texted. He wrote, Get there okay?
I reply, Yes. Picked up a few hitchhikers. Seem pretty nice. Making a pit stop at their human farm. Never been to one. Could be fun!
I regret it immediately after I hit SEND. Human farm?
I’m trying too hard to maintain our banter, or at least some semblance of normalcy in our relationship. I want to keep it stable, as if it’s a volatile chemical. I’m afraid if there’s any change too drastic, it’ll either disintegrate or explode.
I return my gaze to the woods. They’re so lush. I’m not used to being surrounded by this much nature. It’s calming, I think. Maybe just a little bit terrifying? I can’t shake the feeling the woods are looking back at me, sizing me up just the same as I am them.
I step back from the window.
There’s a little kitchen off of the dining space. Pink linoleum flooring, old wooden cabinets with a fresh coat of white paint to match the rest of the apartment. The appliances are old, the fridge snoring in the corner, but I don’t mind. On the counter, there’s a pretty bouquet of flowers in a mason jar vase. Pink carnations, baby’s breath, purple aster and deep burgundy roses. There’s another flower, big and purple, but I’m not sure what it is. I lean down to smell it and immediately sneeze.
I apologize to the now snot-covered petals.
Next to the flowers is a note from Lynn.
Welcome, Annie! Call if you need anything!
It’s such a sweet gesture, I could cry. I take a slow breath and set my palms flat on the counter.
I see him.
A tiny black spider ambling just beyond my fingertips. He is not hurried. He is small and smooth, his legs are long and he lifts them high as he goes, almost like in a little march.
“Buddy,” I say.
I find a glass to catch him under. I slide Lynn’s note underneath the spider. I walk over to the window, unlock it and pull it open. It takes some effort, the window stiff and stubborn.
“All right, guy,” I tell the spider. I release him, carefully, onto the ledge outside. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
He’s not. He continues his march toward the siding. I close the window.
I spend the next few hours lugging my stuff up from the car and unpacking. I hang clothes in the closet. I make up the bed with my new bedding, wrestle with the top sheet. I put my books on the shelves, arranging them alphabetically, only to change my mind and rearrange by color and then again by which books I think would be friends. I find another spider on one of the shelves. I catch him under the same glass. I take him downstairs and set him free on the driveway.
“Go find your friends,” I tell him as I get my last bag out of the trunk.
I unpack my shampoo and conditioner and bodywash, set them on the ledge of the tub. I put my lotions and potions inside the mirror cabinet. Toothpaste and sunscreen and various moisturizers and a new citrusy perfume I’m trying out. It makes me smell like a new person. The person I’m trying to be. It’s aspirational perfume.