The first time I toured my apartment, I gasped at its small size and said, “If I move here, I might as well be living in my jewelry box.”

I had looked at the place, rolling the situation of my new life around in my head. First, I could not go home. Second, I could not go back to the dorms at the college. Third, I did not want a roommate.

I had to accept that I was responsible for myself and if I was going to manage that, then I needed to choose a home I could afford.

I signed the lease and slowly started making the place over to look like a jewelry box. That was accomplished by combining elements from my enormous jewelry box from back when I was still the queen of everything. I started by hanging pink velvet curtains. I hung mirrors and brought in the plushest furniture I could afford. I decorated the drapes in gold trim and hung crystals everywhere I could.

When my dates visited my apartment, they had a collection of thoughts that were easy to read.

“This is a girl’s apartment.”

“I’ve never been in such a girly apartment.”

“I could never live in a place like this. No man could live in a place like this.”

“Wait. This couch is comfortable.”

“All these cushions make me feel right at home. Maybe all this pink isn’t so bad.”

“I wonder if her bed is comfortable.”

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Sometimes, I would catch them sneaking a peek into the closet off the living room that was so large I had tucked my bed inside. Some of the other tenants in the building had their beds out in the open, or they slept on a couch that transformed into a bed and used the closet to store their mountain bike. I did not own a mountain bike, and nor would I allow guests to lounge where I intended to sleep later.

The kitchen had been the hardest part to decorate. The cupboards were garbage, so I covered them in gold patterned contact paper. All my dishes were clear, even if they weren’t crystal, except for my utensils which were gold. I had pink placemats. The fridge looked terrible, so did the microwave, but I couldn’t live entirely in a jewelry box. Still, I shook my head at that fridge. My toilet was prettier.

My dates who visited did not know what it would mean for the rest of their lives if they decided to partner up with a woman who decorated her apartment the way I did. They were confused. They wanted to be with an attractive woman, a feminine woman, a woman who presented the way I did when I was on their arm. They looked at their surroundings in my apartment and they wondered what they would have to sacrifice if they decided on me.

Sometimes they’d talk to me about it. “So, are you married to this style of decorating?”

I’d smirk and let them believe there wasn’t much more to me than what they could see.

Then they’d tell me about how they would like to see their future house decorated. They’d describe a hunting lodge, or a dark library, or the very clean lines of stainless steel appliances. Unfortunately for my morale, I agreed with that one. I did not have the appliances I had because I had chosen them.

It was obvious that most of these men had never even thought about interior design before. I was inadvertently forcing them to think about the future. Both the future for that evening (about whether or not he could stand to hang out in a pink velvet parlor) and the far future of the rest of their lives (if he could stand pink drapes as part of a compromise). Sometimes men stood in the entryway on the other side of my crystal beaded curtain and wondered if there was a reward for tolerating this new side of me.

I had not invited Fletch over to my apartment yet. I knew why I hadn’t. If he came in and thought all those things the other men thought, I didn’t know if I would be able to stand it.

That was the moment I knew…

That I liked Fletch more than I had ever liked anyone.