Opening a cupboard in the dining area one day, Hans discovered that Peter had apparently made off with the set of expensive, etched champagne flutes. While it was true that they had picked them out together at Cathay Imports, the import shop owned by John and Cathy Cabot, who lived upstairs, after all Hans had paid for them. In hindsight, he regretted having walked out in a snit when Peter was packing up. What else was gone that he hadn’t missed yet, he wondered? Going through everything in the condo to find that out was too much like housecleaning. 
They had purchased many other things together, when they were first setting up the condo. And Hans felt melancholy remembering how they’d prepared for their vacation in Puerto Rico. Peter explained that everything was more expensive there; it would be his second time on the island. They would be better off buying the basics more cheaply and generically before they went and have a wider selection here too. So they chose swimwear and towels, sunglasses, extra memory cards, the works, and Hans had paid for all that too—his treat, so Peter would agree to come on vacation with him. Since Peter had left him Hans hadn’t gone swimming even once, it made him so lonely.
Of course, when Peter moved out he took his own car with him. At least he couldn’t take away the condo that Hans had bought and titled in his own name. Then employed full-time, he’d qualified for a mortgage with very little paid down. That was no longer possible, not since the recession anyway, with lending conditions changing so drastically. He had friends who’d bought and titled property together and since split up. Some of those properties had to be put up for sale; some were now languishing unsold on the market.
Hans still saw Peter from time to time, though he didn’t go out as much as he used to—too much work to do now. Working late most nights, his social life had pretty much tanked. When they had moved into the condo, counting on Peter’s share to help pay the mortgage and the condo fees, Hans had left his job to seek the freelance work he had always wanted to try. Though space was cramped, he’d set up a desk at home. Now that Peter was gone, he relaxed and spread out a little more so the space began to seem more like an actual office, his own office.
This was the last time he remembered actually looking at his condo docs, to find out if there were any restrictions about working in the building. Most people had some kind of computer set-up at home, and a lot more often did some work from home, but his work was going to be full-time. As far as he could tell, the intent of the restriction was to prevent increased vehicle or client traffic into the building. You couldn’t run a doctor’s office with patients coming and going, for example. He might have an occasional work-related visitor but nothing on that order.
He had taken on even more work now, to cover his costs of living there. Part of his decision to run for treasurer was his hope that he could build his reputation with the other residents and establish a new client base amongst them. And it had begun to work out for him, quite literally. He’d arranged to do the association books, work previously farmed out, at a reduced rate. No conflict of interest there—he was reducing association expenditures.
Now without a car, he had to be better organized. Errands took longer to do and trips had to be planned out. He was becoming quite the downtown walker; that was good because it broke up his work day. Sitting all day glued to his chair might be an aid to his concentration but it certainly wasn’t good for his health. To better utilize his time as he worked, he was picking up nifty little online tools to help him with daily tasks.
“Where’s that hunk boyfriend of yours?” Kitty Doyle asked Hans one day, as they waited for the elevator. They lived on the same floor. As it arrived Hans merely smiled, grateful that he was going up and she was apparently going down.
Must have left him, Kitty surmised, maybe he really has no ‘pupich’ after all. Too bad—that boyfriend was eye candy. She preferred to think of herself as eye candy too, liked exactly as she was. Her boyfriend Greg was always trying to fix her, change her, take her apart bit by bit to do a remix of his own, to make her into what he wanted. He should concentrate on changing those brats of his, not on her, his precious little flower girls with their stupid little flower names.