WHY IS THIS IN THE FILE?
Nobody took responsibility quickly enough.
I slept with the man downstairs three times before I learned he was chair of the condo board. In my defense, none of his dating pictures included a binder.
I am thirty-four. He is forty-one. We met on an app while sitting in apartments separated by one remarkably expensive slab of concrete. The app said he was nearby. For once, a technology company had understated the situation.
We wanted something casual. We said so. We had a pleasant evening, followed by two further evenings that did not require a coat. I thought I had found the ideal arrangement for a man who works nights and dislikes paying surge pricing.
Then came breakfast.
He asked whether I had ever considered getting more involved in the building.
I assumed this was a joke about what had just occurred. It was a vacancy for secretary.
He said the board needed someone who could write clearly. I produce overnight radio, and several of our listeners have complained that I am articulate at an unreasonable hour. He had noticed.
I told him I was not looking for responsibility. He said neither was he, and opened the binder.
The first meeting was in his apartment. Three neighbors came. There were biscuits. I sat on a chair I was relieved to discover had no particular significance. He called the meeting to order in a voice I had not heard before.
I am embarrassed by how much I liked that voice.
I am more embarrassed that I took excellent minutes.
By the second meeting, I had opinions about the reserve fund. By the third, I understood why the roof quote had expired. I had entered the arrangement willing to spend an occasional night with a handsome neighbor. I was now sending a Wednesday reminder about water damage.
We still see each other casually. The board work is voluntary, separate, and a subject I refuse to discuss in bed. This rule has been respected except for one brief argument about whether a crack was cosmetic.
My friends think the whole thing is a disguised relationship. They ask whether I keep a toothbrush there. I don’t.
I keep a folder there.
It has my name on the spine and contains correspondence with a lift maintenance company. I have never felt so compromised by an object available from an office-supply shop.
Last week, he brought someone else to a building social. I liked the man. I experienced a small, private pang, then got through it without turning an ordinary evening into a referendum on my desirability.
Later, I asked whether the new man lived locally.
He said yes.
I asked whether he knew spreadsheets.
There are only four of us on the board. I am trying to keep an open mind.
Fiction from Slutty Confessions. Nico Lark is a Broken Zine persona.
