The Seven Year Slip

ON THE FOURTH FLOOR of the Monroe on the Upper East Side, there was a small, cluttered apartment I loved.

I loved it because in the mornings a perfect slant of light draped itself across the kitchen, spilling golden egg yolk across the table and tiled floor, and in the stillness of 10:00 a.m., motes of dust glittered across the air like stars.

I loved it because it had an elegant claw-foot bathtub that was the perfect size to curl oneself inside and paint. I loved it because books spilled off the shelves in the study, and half-dying devil’s ivy curled around busts of long-dead poets. And in the evenings, I remembered my aunt sashaying through the living room, her hair up in a colorful scarf, wearing her favorite “I murdered my husband in cold blood” robe, a martini in one hand, and all of life, grabbed by the horns, in the other.

I loved it because there were marks on the doorway leading into the bedroom, where every summer my aunt measured my height and marked it with a different shade of fingernail polish.

And I loved that apartment because I loved seeing Iwan in it, humming along to nineties pop songs as he danced around the kitchen, from cutting board to stove to sink, stealing glances at me with those glittering gemstone eyes. I could almost imagine wanting to come back to those moments, again and again, just to remember how he smiled and called me Lemon in his soft, rumbling voice.

Even as we packed everything into boxes, I loved this apartment. As I kissed my fingers and planted them on the wall, and said goodbye, for the first and the last time, I wanted to stay here forever, but Iwan took my hand and led me through the front door and into some bright unknown.

Nothing stayed—or so I had always thought. Nothing stayed and nothing lingered.

But I was wrong.

Because there was an apartment in the Monroe on the Upper East Side that was full of magic, and it taught me how to say goodbye.

And it was no longer mine.

That didn’t matter, though, because I carried all of the good moments with me, the walls and the furniture—the claw-foot tub and the robin’s-egg blue chair—and the way my aunt danced me around the living room, so no matter where I was, I would always be home.

Because the things that mattered most never really left.

The love stays.

The love always stays, and so do we.