Page 60 of One Week
“We’re here,” he cheers.
We’re back at his friend’s hotel, and my suitcase is waiting for me, just as promised. I thank Dave profusely, and Eli calls a cab.
The taxi arrives quickly, and the driver is very helpful with my bag. I watch the sights while Eli tells me about his neighborhood. He lives and works in Vesterbro, a trendy district not too far from Nyhavn. Ages ago, it was a working class neighborhood, but now it’s filled with artists and hipsters. “There are tons of restaurants and clubs,” he tells me. “I need to bring you to a club.”
“You go out often?” I ask. The thought of him dancing with breathtaking Dane women and taking them home fills me with inexplicable jealousy.
He scowls. “No, too expensive. I’m kind of an introvert. My flat mate, on the other hand, is always out.”
I’m surprised by his words. “Oh, you have a roommate? I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it’s the only way I can afford the place. Actually, it’s his place. He lets me rent a room.”
I wonder if the roommate will be there the whole time. This could potentially be very awkward. “Why didn’t you mention this before?” I ask. “We’ve chatted for hours. How do I not know this?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know… maybe I wanted you to think I owned the place,” he confesses. “Your home is so nice. Maybe I thought you wouldn’t come.”
Well, he’s got me there. I probably wouldn’t have come if I knew I’d be sharing accommodations with a total stranger. Well, if things go badly, I could always rent a room at Dave’s hotel — I wonder if he’d have any available.
“And honestly, sometimes I forget he exists because he’s never there,” Eli goes on. “He’s an art dealer, and he’s always traveling.”
“Is he traveling right now?” I ask tentatively.
A slow smile stretches across his face. “Yes.”
Yes!
“I chose this week because I knew he’d be gone,” he admits. “I wanted us to be alone.”
I bite my lip. “I—”
“We’re here,” he cheers. “I can’t wait to show you.”
He lives in an old industrial looking building, and I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, and am about to enter an old factory. With much effort, we manage to wheel my suitcase into the old-school elevator, and finally reach the top floor.
He wiggles an old style key into the door lock. It seems so ancient — I have a press button key pad on my door.
The place is gorgeous; bright and airy, open, and very white. The walls are lined with white painted brick, and floor to ceiling paned windows. The furniture is sparse, and the pieces are very bright and sleek. The blue sofa I remember seeing in the photo he’d sent me sits under a striking painting, silently begging me to come and lie on it.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s fantastic.”
“Not too modern for you?”
“Well, it’s more modern than I’m used to, but I love it.” I turn on my heel and gawk some more. “I love the kitchen.” It’s truly fabulous; green cabinetry, sleek black shelves, a dark granite countertop island, stainless steel appliances, and orange accents throughout. There’s a round wood table, surrounded by black curvy chairs, the kind that were popular in the sixties. There’s even a vase of orange flowers at its center — tulips, my favorite.
“I bought those for you,” he tells me.
I want to cry. I really do. “You’re too sweet.”
“Come in,” he urges.
I slip off my shoes, and he wheels my bag toward a bedroom. “My suitcase fits right in,” I joke. “This place is colorful.”
“That’s Albert’s doing,” he says, “but I like it. I like color.”
I smile. “Obviously.”
