Rent To Own

 Writing class assignment. A bit of fiction based on true events.

First person persona narrator, past tense. The narrator is looking back on a time of youthful excitement, when she was truly becoming herself. The mood is nostalgic, and the tone is enthusiastic.

My first apartment was so small that if I spread out my arms - fingertips touching one wall of the living room - and then took two shuffling steps in the opposite direction, I could touch the other wall. The bathroom was a shoebox so tiny the sink couldn’t fit and was positioned right outside the bathroom door in the bedroom. Cramped, finicky, and with sketchy neighbors, it was the first place which was fully and truly all my own. I absolutely loved it.

That apartment, Fiona Flats (a comically austere name, though at the time I found it winsome), wasn’t much, but it was all mine. The highlight of my hodge-podge furniture collection was, perhaps, a forest green faux-leather couch which my father took off some neighbor’s hands when they were throwing it away. I slept in the twin-sized bed from my childhood, and for the less-than-a-kitchenette counter I bought two barstools from IKEA. For dinners, I would make quesadillas or nachos and proudly call it cooking. On the weekends I would go to the local Blockbuster or Hollywood Video and pick out rentals. I loved it there; it was a treasure hunt, with so many options for entertainment ready to entice me. Curled up on the faux-leather couch, I sipped cheap red win and watched an eclectic range of films. I carried my laminated Blockbuster card in my wallet for months after the last one near me had closed down; scrolling through streaming services has never captured the same excitement of walking into a video store, eager to see what’s newly released and if there will be any copies left.

Not long after moving in, I began to crush hard on Corey, a guy who had recently moved to town and joined my general circle of friends. Corey had a smile which would start out a little shy but would quickly split across his whole face. For ages, I was in agony, wondering if he had any kind of reciprocal feelings for me. Finally, I decided that one way or another I had to take a chance. He was always sweet to me – perhaps in a way edging on affection? A group of us met at our local Chili’s for dinner, and afterwards, I stopped Corey on his way to his car and said I wanted to tell him something.

“Sure, Susan,” he said, his kind eyes looking into mine. My heart hammered.
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I really like you, and in case you have any similar
interest in me, I wanted you to know that if you wanted to ask me out on a date, I’d say yes.”
(I cringe to think of it now, but how carefully I had planned the casual stating of my
feelings and lobbing of the ball into his court!)
“Oh!” Corey gave me a look of genuine surprise. Good or bad? I couldn’t tell.
“Thank you so much. I’m really flattered. You’re really great, and … well, I have to be honest and say that I’m actually interested in someone else right now. So, you’re great, I don’t want you to not think that, I just … thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course!” I said, the words leaping from my mouth with false brightness. 

Instinctively, I had taken a step back. 

“Of course, thank you for being honest, that’s good to know.” 

I floundered, smiling cheerily as tears stung my eyes.

We assured each other that everything was fine and said an awkward goodbye. I cried all the way home, cried on my faux-leather couch, cried in my twin-sized bed. Yet, in the days that followed, I felt thankful. Though the moments after the conversation seemed to be ones of defeat, while walking up to Corey I had felt brave. I had chosen to speak. Just as my apartment was piddly, it was also perfect, and knowing, even though it hurt, was better than not.