The apartment next door to me is for sale. While sitting at my kitchen window, looking over the building’s garden to the other kitchen window, I fantasize about how a perfect-Guy-for-me will move in — funny, smart, divorced, kids grown.

I’d imagine he’d be a great cook.

            Come over for dinner, Guy would text me. I’m serving miso salmon over a bed of jasmine rice.

            I’ll be right over!

When he’d sleep over and start snoring, I would nudge him to go home and he’d shuffle down the hall to his own place. There’d be no need to squeeze his things into my closets or give up precious storage in my bathroom.

I even conjured up the “meet cute.” 

He’d be at the door of the available apartment with the realtor as I’d be taking out the trash.

“Hi,” I’d innocuously say with a welcome smile. Of course, I’d be dressed in a cute outfit, hair done, make-up freshened.

“Hey,” he’d say back, following me with his eyes to the trash shoot at the end of the hallway while the realtor unlocked the apartment door.

Several minutes later, with my coat and purse, I’d be leaving for dinner as he’d be coming out of the apartment. 

“How’d you like it?” I’d ask.

“It’s great!” He’d respond. “How do you like this building?”

We’d chat in the lobby. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?” he’d ask me after the realtor left. “I’d love to learn more about the neighborhood.”

And that’s it! We’d fall madly in love.

“It’s the perfect set-up!” I say to my friends. “We’d live together separately!”

My unmarried, work friend Arelene, says, “next door is too close.”

I laugh. “But he’s my fantasy, Guy! He’s perfect!”

She raises an unconvinced eyebrow.

Later, I did wonder. Would he want to spend every evening together? What about Monday nights when I swaddle up in front of the TV for my guilty pleasure, The Bachelor, with a Trader Joe’s ice cream sandwich and a glass of caffeine-free Diet Coke for dinner? Will I have to share?

Or on days I’m working from home, would he expect me to get dressed rather than just slip on my furry, hoodie over my pajamas, my hair still in its overnight sloppy bun?

What if he has a dog?

I texted my friends: I broke up with my fantasy Guy. He kept asking me to walk his dog while he was at work.

My friend Lynn replied: You could have imagined a fantasy Guy with a cat.

Now, when I sit at my kitchen window, I wonder who will move in. What if it’s the perfect, single woman — funny, smart, divorced, kids grown?

We’d meet the day she moves in.

“Welcome,” I’d greet her. “I’m right next door. Don’t hesitate to ask me for anything.”

She’d respond with, “It’ll be nice to have someone to borrow that proverbial cup of sugar from.”

“I’m more likely to have rum!” We’d laugh.

It just so happens that she’d love to cook. She’d ask me, “I’m making penne alla vodka. You want some?” 

“I’ll be right over!”

I’d find out she loves The Bachelor, too. So on Monday nights, she’d pad over to my place in her slippers with Trader Joe’s ice cream sandwiches. “I brought us the whole box.”

And me, in my furry hoodie, would say, “I have the caffeine-free, Diet Coke all chilled. Shall I add the rum?”

Of course, she’d never expect me to walk her dog or feed her cat.

And that’s it! She’d be the perfect-neighbor-for-me.

“Won’t you be my neighbor?” A Fantasy was last modified: by

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