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Intrigued, I quickly scan the article.
Finalized a contract with The City of Minneapolis to use Nero’s Security Company on all new government building projects, over the next five years… Some speculation on the relationship between Minneapolis Mayor Oscar Devon and Nero, the owner of Nero’s…
My eyes fly across the rest of the words, but there’s never any mention of Nero’s last name.
I search more variations, but nothing I type in gets me any more information on Nero the man.
When the aroma of coffee finally permeates my brain, I look down to see that the pot is finished brewing and wonder just how long I’ve been standing here.
Tucking my phone into the shallow pocket of my pajama pants, I open the cupboard above the coffee maker and grab my favorite mug. It’s a heavy ceramic, painted yellow, and from Grand Canyon National Park.
I’ve never been. I’ve never even left the Midwest. But I found it at a Goodwill a few years ago and it brings me a strange amount of joy. Because someone went there, and even if the mug is mine now, I feel like it holds the memories of the original owner. Like if I close my eyes real tight, I can pretend that I’m the type of person that takes vacations too.
Some day.
You will never worry about money. Not for me. And not for you.
Nero’s words from last night skitter around my thoughts.
I might be naïve, but I’m not so foolish as to think he really meant that.
The steam from my mug makes my gaze hazy as I take my first sip.
Nero said a lot of things last night, and I believe he told me the truth––about him, about his life–– but I could feel his hesitation. And whether that hesitancy was really for my safety, or for some other reason, the fact remains, he’s not here this morning.
Sighing, I turn toward the living room and decide to spend my day off as I usually would––on the couch, binge watching baking shows.
I’ve made it two steps, to the edge of the little island, when a rectangle of black catches my attention.
Sitting halfway between the counter and the front door is an envelope.
“How?”
Setting my mug down, I crouch and pick it up.
It’s heavy. And the texture tells me it’s made of a thick card stock. It’s not the size of a normal envelope. It’s shorter and fatter.
I glance around, like maybe someone will pop up and sayhey, that’s mine.
There’s nothing written on the front, and flipping it over, I see it’s not sealed.
My teeth bite down on my lip as I debate opening it. But it’s in my apartment, and I can’t picture Nero dropping it on accident.
My eyes dart back to the countertop. Maybe he left it for me, but when he shut the door, it slid off.
Maybe?
Exasperated with myself, I groan, “Oh my god, just open it!”
My fingers open the flap and pull out a single piece of paper, made of the same heavy black stock.
There’s a small symbol embossed in gold at the bottom of the page that looks sorta like the letter A inside of the sun.
I blink at it, not understanding, then my fingers register raised letters on the other side of the paper.
When I turn it over, my mouth slips open.
It’s an invitation. A fancy as hell invitation to a birthday party. For Nero. Tonight.
