Avery Meets His Neighbors

How could my doctor be so stupid? His missing license number was the only thing standing between mental piece of mind and me. I sighed, resigning to the fact that I would have to wait another day to get my Xanax prescription refilled. After purchasing a large bottle of Advil— a consolation prize of sorts—, I made the disappointing journey home.

The sun had already begun to set, signaling that unique time of day in Streeterville. Business hours long over, many of the shops were also beginning to close. Night owls, tourists and other revelers, however, were beginning to turn up in full force, ready to partake in the nightlife of this magnificent city. That energy is why Jack and I chose to make Downtown Chicago our home. On this night, however, that energy was not enough to lift my spirits.

I nodded to the evening doorman as I made my way to the elevator bank, where three of my neighbors were waiting patiently for the carriage. I think that high-rise living is the cat’s pajamas. That said, there’s a very depressing element to it. So many units in one building mean that you never know most of your neighbors.

As I politely nodded to them, I searched for clues about these nameless people with whom I share a home. The blonde carried two Nordstrom bags in one hand and a Louis Vuitton Monogram attaché in the other. It was probably fake, and she just another over-the-hill, former Lincoln Park Trixie. The older, distinguished-looking gentleman in the dark suit furiously typed into his BlackBerry. His scowled indicated a lawyer or financial type whose bad day had not quite ended. The cute Italian-looking guy had perfectly manicured hands and no wedding ring. Probably gay. Scratch that. He was carrying this month’s issue of Details. Definitely gay. Maybe he could be my rebound?

When we reached the 14^th floor, I stepped off of the elevator and trudged toward my apartment. To my surprise, the door was unlocked. A knot immediately formed in the pit of my stomach. Jack was home.

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