You will find the rest on the next page.
I stared at the paper for so long that the cashier finally asked me if I needed help.
“Is it still available?” I asked.
She glanced at the notice.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“Do you know him?”
“Everyone here knows Mr. Álvarez.”
The way he said it made me nervous, but I wrote down the address anyway.
The apartment was a converted garage located behind an old blue house on Palmer Street.
It had one bedroom and a kitchen the size of a wardrobe.
From a window above the sink, you could see someone else’s tomato plants.
The paint on the walls was faded and the floor was slightly sloped near the bathroom.
The refrigerator was emitting a low hum.
There was no dishwasher, no laundry room, and no space for a dining table.
To me, it seemed safe.
Trixie ran from one end of the room to the other.
“Can I put stars on the ceiling?”
“We’ll see.”
“That means no.”
“That means we’ll see.”
He looked at me seriously and then opened the closet.
“It’s small.”
“Your clothes too.”
That made her laugh.
The owner, Mr. Alvarez, greeted me at the entrance.
He was about 70 years old, wore the same gray work shirt every day, and had a face that didn’t reveal at all what he was thinking.
He had white hair and wore it very short.
He had rough hands and a thin scar near his left thumb.
He looked at me, then at Trixie, and then at my car.
The car had broken down twice on the way.
He asked me three questions: “Did you smoke?” “Did you have a dog?” “Was the girl mine?”
“No, no and yes,” I replied.
Mr. Alvarez looked at Trixie again.
He came up to me and took my hand.
Then he said, “$800 a month. The first of every month. No lease, because I don’t like paperwork.”
I almost cried right there, at the entrance of the house.
Eight hundred dollars was less than half the price of anything else in that city.
“Do we need to pay a deposit?” I asked.
“No.”
“Application fee?”
“No.”
Do you need proof of income?
He stared at me.
“Can you pay $800?”
“Yeah.”
“Then move in on Saturday.”
That was it.
No background check. No references. No long conversations about my failed marriage or unstable finances.
I thanked him so many times that his expression finally changed.
“Stop thanking me,” he said. “Just pay on time.”
“I will do that.”
And I did it.
We moved with six boxes, two suitcases, and a mattress that my sister gave us.
Trixie slept in the bedroom.
I slept on a narrow sofa in the living room.
The first night, the rain pounded against the roof.
Trixie came out holding her blanket.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Too noisy?”
She nodded.
I lifted the blanket.
“Come here.”
He climbed up next to me and rested his head on my shoulder.
“Do you like our new house?” she asked.
