“I’m in love with you,” my doorman announced. It was 2 a.m. and I’d just gotten home from a night out with friends. We were alone in the lobby.
He’d set countless traps and fixed leaks, but in all our moments alone, he’d never before made any passionate proclamations.
I figured the problem was the same thing that’s been plaguing me since I moved to this city: I’m a Midwesterner. I smile at everyone. Here in New York, though, wanton friendliness is beyond atypical. It’s downright dangerous.
Last March I moved. Not because of Felix—though I was elated to end our “relationship”—but because I’d decided to move in with my boyfriend. I’m not sure what I was happier about when I first met him a year prior: that I finally found someone great, or that I now had a tall, muscular boyfriend who would come to my building often and scare Felix away. Unfortunately, the first time they met, Felix, who politely shook his hand, seemed unfazed. As time went by though, he began to question our relationship.