We moved, but we hadn’t gone far. We’d taken the first place we’d looked at—a cozy little two-bedroom a block and a half away on a main street. It was smaller than our old place, but it felt solid; large, light friendly windows facing the street, a cute, small kitchen, a charming built-in hutch. Since it was a two-bedroom, I could no longer have an office; my things went into storage. But in my haste to get away from the old place, where I no longer felt safe, this seemed a small price to pay.

We were also pleased to meet our new downstairs neighbors, an elderly couple named Mr. and Mrs. R. She was sunny and sweet and, on occasion, shared brownies with us. He was quiet and seemed friendly, but confused; we later learned he had Alzheimer’s. The year of our wedding, she made us a Christmas ornament, with a lovely note wishing us many years of happiness.

We would see them waiting for the bus or walking to the store, she patiently helping him across the street, talking to him all the while. When they moved around the corner to a first-floor apartment, we missed them. They had lived in the same place for 40 years, it turned out; the place was renovated and some career girls moved in.

Party like it's 1999: Kitty guards the chocolate-covered strawberries.

In this apartment I felt safe and it seemed peaceful, although we heard plenty of street noise. I read E.B. White’s letters there in the summer and worked at home watching the snow fall. Sick with the strep throat, I tottered unsteadily from the bedroom to the kitchen to eat tomato soup. And when we installed a window air conditioner and a Tivo in the front room, the front room became the place to idle the summer away.

Convenient to public transit, with city bus route outside your door. Literally.

It was a good thing I felt safe because it was a busy time. Two days after we moved in, Grumpy Sean arrived and spent the summer sleeping on an air mattress on the floor. We saw him between attending various friends’ weddings across the country this summer and planning our own. To that apartment that same September we dragged bags of wedding gifts home and sat, dazed, awash in ribbons and pastel and good wishes.

Not all of the events were happy, though; in that apartment on a cold dark morning not two months later, I got the call that E.’s mother had died in Indiana. And it was there we returned after the funeral, with a mourning candle that I didn’t want to burn 24 hours a day for fear we’d burn the place down.

We chose the apartment as an emergency measure and ended up staying for three years. During that time, I started to miss having an office. I missed my things. And as we sorted out E.’s family belongings it became clear that our apartment wasn’t going to accommodate them all. After some study we decided to condo hunt. In March 2001 I started interviewing realtors.

The last party we had in the apartment was at the end of that month. It was a joint birthday party for me and another friend. We’d had some great parties there, the kind where people stay late and end up collapsed on the couch in the wee hours, eating leftovers and talking about what happened. That party was no exception, a mix of computer types and music hipsters. The next day we made an offer on a place and in two months we were out of there.

The last thing remaining in the apartment was our old entertainment center. After nine years, its particle board had not aged well and it was bowed and taped together. It had gone from house to house with us and now, in order for us to leave, it required an act of violence. We wrenched it apart and left it in pieces in the alley and moved on.

What happened after: I received a letter from Mrs. R. saying that her husband had died. I sent her a condolence note but, to my regret, we’ve lost track of her.

Next: Fin.