Sunrise Man

A ten-part story about eye candy, IKEA furniture, being cheap, and an immigrant’s dream.

(This essay was first published in the January 2023 issue of Kitchen Table Quarterly.)

I.

I tapped my fob on the keypad of the elevator and waited for a beep that never happened. Strange; it was the second time that week that my fob wasn’t working.

He leaned over to tap his and pressed the “6” button. 

“I didn’t realize we lived on the same floor! I’ve never seen you before,” I exclaimed, my voice betraying unnecessary enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do you live on the sunrise side, or the sunset side?”

We learned that our apartment windows faced opposite directions. As I opened my front door, I turned my head to sneak another glance at him. He had also been looking at me at that moment and we both smiled.

I shared this minute exchange with anybody who would listen later that week; it made for a lighthearted conversation topic. Sunrise side or sunset side? How poetic!! And I knew exactly which apartment he lived in! It was so much easier to talk about my neighbor than to talk about heavier topics on my mind, such as the brevity of life.

“Maybe you can watch the sunset together from your place, and then watch the sunrise from his,” a friend said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

II.

I went downstairs to pick up a package at 5:20pm on a Friday. As it turned out, 5:20pm was precisely when Sunrise Man returned home from work. We nodded at each other in the mail room and I felt slightly self-conscious about being seen in my home clothes; checkered shorts, and an old, oversized grey T-shirt that I got for free in college. Sunrise Man was wearing a black polo shirt, smartly tucked into mustard yellow pants. 

I released another round of external communications to my friends about those yellow pants. The barista at the coffee shop connected to the lobby promised to keep an eye out for him. I was learning Spanish every day, and one day I organically learned enough to form the sentence mi vecino es guapo.

III.

My west-facing studio apartment was pretty sparsely furnished. I had been living there for nine months at that point and I lovingly thought of it as a high-end college dorm. Or, to be more precise, a high-end college dorm for someone two years out of college. It was spacious, kept decently clean, but also very obviously a space for one person who rarely had guests. My clothes were categorized and sorted into four SAMLAs - transparent plastic storage bins from IKEA ($7.99 each). The SAMLAs were placed side by side, in a straight line, in the center of my studio, serving a dual purpose as an ersatz room divider. Once, when I had another friend over for wine, we had no choice but to sit cross-legged together on my SOMMAR rug ($19.99). Those who matter don’t mind and those who mind don’t matter, I always told myself.

IV.

But what if Sunrise Man ever came over to watch the sunset? He might mind. 

I sketched out new layout ideas for my apartment and started jotting down all the things I wanted to buy on an index card so that I would only need to pay for shipping once. A second set of sheets. Two small side tables. A second decorative rug. And, as an impulsive additional purchase, a LIVSVERK vase ($4.99) with thin grey and white horizontal stripes. The LIVSVERK, I decided, represented a new stage of life, one where things in my life could be beautiful.

I rearranged my bed and replaced the SAMLA storage bins with brown faux leather storage ottomans that could seat four. For the first time since I purchased them nine months ago, I put my various mats and rugs into the wash. I held a closet sale and made four hundred and sixty dollars. I impulsively spent ten of those dollars on two small crystals from a local pop-up vendor: amethyst, which was supposed to ward off negative energy, and rose quartz, which was supposed to represent love. I didn’t believe that the crystals had intrinsic powers, but I was on a slippery slope of frivolity after purchasing the LIVSVERK vase.

V.

The finishing touch to my apartment’s new look was fresh flowers that would go into the LIVSVERK. Flowers that were going to die in a few days seemed incredibly impractical; I was afraid of watching death unfold in front of me. And yet, I bought the LIVSVERK because I wanted to see what it would be like to display flowers for myself in a dwelling I was paying for by myself. Perhaps, I was finally prosperous and settled enough in life for this little pleasure. 

I picked out a bunch of red roses ($4.00) at the grocery store and felt nervous on my way back home; as I walked towards the entrance of my apartment building, I realized that it was 5:15pm on a Friday. What if I ran into Sunrise Man on my way up? Would he think the roses were from someone else? Would such an assumption be good or bad?

No sight of Sunrise Man that day. I got back to my studio. I put away the groceries, filled the LIVSVERK with water, put the roses in, and put the LIVSVERK back in its place on the new side table that I assembled all by myself just the day before. 

I remembered that seven years earlier, I filled out my college applications while sitting on a pile of books stacked on top of a stool. The seat of the chair in my teenage bedroom had been broken for some time. I quietly used my makeshift chair for several months, because I didn’t want my mother to worry about having the money to buy me a new one. When I looked back and thought about how far I had come since, I almost cried.

I took a bunch of pictures of my newly-decorated apartment with my phone, maybe a dozen.

VI.

I bought a pair of high-waisted yellow pants ($29.99, plus an additional $5.00 for alterations). 

VII.

I invited a group of friends to come over one evening to watch the sunset. I texted them: My place looks different now — you should come see it! They brought bottles of wine and expressed murmurs of approval at my apartment’s makeover. I still only owned one glass; my alma mater’s logo was printed on it and it was a gift at the end of my year as the senior class president. My friends drank cabernet out of red solo cups. One step at a time, I thought, as I considered the costs associated with upgrading my kitchenware.

Several glasses of wine in, someone asked if I had any updates about Sunrise Man. I replied that I did not, but half-joked that he was the reason why I decided to finally improve the appearance of my living space. I regretted my not-actually-half-joke immediately. What did it say about me that a desire to impress my handsome neighbor — someone I knew nothing about — was the catalyst for my home improvement efforts? 

I closed my eyes and wrinkled my brow, but failed to remember what Sunrise Man looked like.

VIII.

I bought some sunflowers ($4.15). Their stems were very long.

Despite having been on the lookout for weeks, the barista at the coffee shop downstairs had not seen anyone with yellow pants. I spent a Saturday afternoon there reading, sunlight streaming onto my spine, and struck up a conversation with the person sitting at the table next to mine. He was a first-year medical student and he also lived in the same building. At the end of our conversation, he asked me for my number.

IX.

Several days later, I was in the elevator going up with someone I had never met. As it turned out, she also lived on the sixth floor. 

“We moved here in January,” she said. 

“So did I.”

“By the way,” she said, peering down at my new pants, “I like those corduroys.”

“Thank you!”

We both stepped out of the elevator. From the corner of my eye, I saw her walking towards and opening that door. The door. The one my eyes had been darting to whenever I entered and left my apartment. Suddenly, it all came together. We moved here in January. We. It never occurred to me that Sunrise Man might not be single. 

As soon as I entered my studio, I texted my friend:

Sunrise man is not for me

Because I met sunrise woman

My friend replied, almost instantly. 

it’s 2019

I laughed out loud at that.

X.

I woke up later that night, startled by a momentary noise that sounded like glass breaking. It was 2:09am, according to the small green numbers on my oven panel. 

I turned on the lights and saw my sunflowers, along with the LIVSVERK vase, strewn on the floor. The floor was surprisingly dry, and I put the pieces together: I had never changed the water in the vase since the day I bought the sunflowers. The water had slowly, completely evaporated over a few days; the weight of the sunflowers and their stems had finally tipped the LIVSVERK over. I was surprised to see that the LIVSVERK was still intact after its fall. 

I was surprised about myself for that, too, again and again and again.