Before long, I have everything done and packed up, so I head out to Apollo’s place. He doesn’t live on the water, says it’s too much work to maintain a house that’s constantly exposed to direct salt air, and he’s right.
It’s a lot of upkeep.
I turn onto his street and park in front of the little place he bought close to ten years ago now, and climb the cement steps to the front door.
“Hey, thanks,” Apollo says as he opens the door. “For the helpandthe food.”
“It’s never fun to eat alone. Let’s move furniture after food.”
“Good call.”
I follow him into the small galley kitchen and see that he’s already set out plates and forks.
None of it matches each other.
With our plates loaded, we sit in the living room and dig in.
“You’ve lived here for a decade,” I announce after looking around the space.
“Yeah?”
“And you haven’t hung evenonething on the walls.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m hardly here. I’ve been meaning to hang something.”
“Forten years.”
“Not all of us are art experts, okay?”
“But most adults don’t live like—”
“Like what?”
I chew my bread. “Like coeds.”
Apollo takes in his house and shrugs again. “It’s clean. That’s really all I need.”
“Someday, a woman is going to come into your life and turn it upside down.”
“See? Why do I have to hang anything? Someday, someone else will do it.”
“That’s a great way to think about it.”
When we’ve finished eating, Apollo puts the dishes in the dishwasher and then gestures for me to follow him.
“It’s in here.”
“If it’s the size of Alaska, I’m gonna be pissed, man.”
“Half the size.” He laughs and turns into his bedroom. “I’m getting rid of all of this furniture.”
“Allof it?”
“Well, except for the mattress and box spring.”
“Why?”
He tries to act nonchalant, but then he rubs his hand over his face.