Apartment Numbers

He paused with his fist in midair, his eyes wide and staring on the bold golden numbers on the door. 383. He knew he should knock, he knew he should focus on why he came here, yet he couldn’t stop thinking of those numbers. 383. How many times had he gazed at them? Months ago, he would’ve double checked the letters against the address she texted him before their first few dates. He’d seen the numbers many times, dropping her off, picking her up, coming over to watch movies. There must’ve been times he forgot to look at them; maybe the first time she invited him in, or after late nights watching her fumble with the lock after a few too many vodka tonics. He sighed. 383.

Knock knock.

The door swung open. Her roommate, was it... Emma? Ella? She was never around much, and the few times he’d seen her, she was in a hurry to be somewhere else.

“Oh! Hi Mark! Do you and Anna have a date tonight? Fun! Come in! I’m just heading out!” The door shut behind Emma/Ella before he was able to return the greeting.

“Oh, hey.” Anna says from the doorway of her bedroom. “Sorry about Emily.”

Emily. Close enough.

“I’ts okay. I’m guessing you didn’t tell her?”

“No,” Anna says, releasing a deep breath. “I haven’t had the chance yet.” She makes her way into the living room, closer to Mark, who’s still standing, rather awkwardly, right infront of the door.

“Well, typical Emily.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

The two stare at eachother for a moment, unsure of what to say next.

“Well,” Anna sighs, finally looking Mark directly in the eye, “might as well get this over with. Your stuff is in my room. I’ll be right back.”

Mark nods, glancing around the room for the last time. He smiles softly as Anna returns with a small brown box with his blue sweater he’d given her sticking out from the top.

“This is it, I guess.”

“I guess. Hey.. I’m sorry it had to end like this... but the move, and the job, it just so much.”

“I know, Mark. It’s okay. We both agreed it would end worse if we did long distance.”

“You’re right.” He sits the box down to give her one last hug. “Bye, Anna.”

“Bye, Mark.”

He hears the door shut behind him, and takes a moment to gaze, once again, at the gold letters. 383. Anna. 383.

Mark walks down to his car, packed almost entirely to the brim. He carefully places the box of his things on the passenger seat, next to two other small boxes. He gazes at the three boxes, a smirk on his face as he scans the content. He reaches out his hand to touch one particular item in each box, a blue sweater, all identical the one he’d lent Anna. Satisified, he starts his car, then pulls out a pencil and small black journal from the center console. He opens the journal to his list, and marks a line through 383-Anna.

“And next,” he says to himself, “421-Christine. 10 minutes away.”

421.