Page 5 of Vameer

Perfect nuclear families. Kids playing hopscotch down the sidewalk. Pies cooling on windowsills. Cocaine habits and mistresses hidden from view.

I snicker at my own thoughts, then take another sip to cover my expression.

Back then, this was a family street. Now, almost all the homes have been converted to commercial properties with storefronts on the ground level and rental apartments upstairs.

I’ve only been here for six months, but I’m already feeling restless.

My parents say it’s in my blood. The want to move. Always looking forward to the next adventure. But that’s because that’s who they are. As soon as I moved out of the house at nineteen, they moved to the other side of the country. Then they moved overseas. And now they’re down in Costa Rica.

But I don’t feel the desire to move because I want to see something new. I feel the need to move because I have to get somewhere.

But I don’t know where. And I don’t understand why. And I don’t know what I’m looking for. And that is the problem. All I know is that I won’t find what I’m looking for here. And I have to move.

I reach up with my free hand and rub at my chest.

It’s your birthday, Rune. Save the existential crisis for tomorrow.

A car door slams, and I notice the delivery van in front of my place.

My brows lift. Is that for me?

I pick up my pace until I reach the dark blue house with the pair of light blue doors.

The Gallery is stenciled across the window in the top half of the door on the left, and it leads into the little art gallery that takes up the lower level of the home. There’s a large picture window in the center of the building, boasting a display of this month’s featured artist. Then there’s the second blue door on the right, with a small arched pane of glass at the very top. Too high up for my five-foot-five self to see through.

And leaning against that door, the one leading up to my apartment, is a small cardboard box.

I pull my keys out of my purse and unlock the door, then pick up the box and tuck it under my arm.

Even from across the world, Mom and Dad always manage to get my gift delivered on my actual birthday.

After I push the door shut behind me, I lock it. Then I kick my shoes off in the small entryway and start up the narrow flight of stairs.

I realized I left my phone at home when I was halfway to the coffee shop, so I didn’t linger, because my parents usually call right at my birth time, 3:33. Which, by my guess, should still be a few minutes.

My socks are silent on the hardwood as I step into my studio-style apartment.

The stairs lead to the back corner of the apartment. Across from my bathroom. And between the stairs and the bathroom is the single window overlooking the tiny backyard and rusty fire escape.

Turning toward the front of the house, I walk past my bedroom. Then I step into the living room-kitchen combo. With a luxurious two windows that overlook the street.

Thankfully the place came furnished.

The bedroom section consists of a plain bed frame, with the headboard against the bathroom wall. A large dresser, since there are no closets, and a full-length mirror propped against the wall.

The front part of the room has a kitchenette area with a short counter, a small table with two chairs that I pretend is a breakfast nook, and a loveseat sofa that awkwardly faces the bed.

It’s not large, but the vaulted ceilings make it feel airy.

For a short-term solution, it’s been great.

What’s also great is the practically nonexistent rent since part of living here means running the art gallery down below.

The Gallery is hardly busy, and is only open four days a week, but it forces me out of the apartment. And I can do my side gig of online transcription work when it’s empty.

I set the box and the rest of my latte on my little table and hang my purse over the back of the chair.

It only takes me a moment to find my phone on the kitchen counter, but I’m surprised to see a missed call from my mom.