Mariel's Magic

Chapter 1. Jonathan and Adriana

Jonathan Stone sat in his one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old, three-story building on Pine Street, between Octavia and Laguna, in San Francisco. He had just returned from a jog, going a mile up Bush Street and then back down Pine, moving against the traffic both ways. While letting himself in through the ground-floor entrance, he noticed a small girl, without a helmet, riding an electric scooter among the cars, and wondered how long it would be before she landed in the hospital.

From the street, his building had two doors, each with beautiful stained-glass windows. However, the effect of the windows was marred by the iron bars that covered them. From there, it was a straight flight of stairs up to his apartment. Halfway up, there was a small landing, which opened to the doors of the two second-floor apartments. Then the stairs continued to the back third-floor apartment and to a short hallway that led to Jonathan's apartment, which fronted the street. The ground-floor apartment was a single flat.

The building was well over a hundred years old and smelled of neglect. He barely noticed the scent of age anymore, but a visitor would comment. It had the smell of old wood, mold that had crept into the walls, ages-old dust that had worked into the crevices, and mediocre cleaning. Jonathan had housecleaners every two weeks, but they only did the basics. His place smelled clean after that, but after a few days, it reverted to its natural state.

There was a fireplace, blocked up long ago, so that the only thing it was used for was a place to put a space heater. The building had at one time been modernized to add central heating, but it was usually ineffective against the cold San Francisco winds, and the building had many small spaces through which the drafts blew in. Sometimes the only warm place in the apartment was in front of that heater. The appliances that came with the place were ancient, but Jonathan did not care much. He depended on a toaster, coffee maker, microwave, and air fryer. He had been in the apartment for five years and never once turned on the oven.

His apartment fronted the street, so he had two beautiful, rounded bay windows. They were single-paned windows, and the wind seemed to blow right through the glass. They were the only windows in the apartment, and he insisted that his housecleaners keep them spotless.

He was sitting on the window seat looking at the street and drinking coffee. Along with his coffee was a Danish that he had picked up at the corner market, three blocks up Pine. The Danish was a little stale, but he didn't mind. It was part of the charm of living here, where the corner store was an odd collection of this and that, and in exchange for convenience, customers were not that picky. This was probably left over from yesterday. Hell, it could have been a week old. The owner was not going to throw it out just because nobody bought it. As he bit into the pastry, his eyes followed the girl on the scooter again, then watched a couple walking a dog across the street. The sounds of the traffic were clear through the thin glass.

His apartment, with an almost but not quite cared-for look, was a perfect reflection of his life, comfortable, yet always missing something. He had no car because he had no garage, and street parking was nonexistent. But lacking a car did not bother him. A lot of people in the city got by with no car. The Metro was fine, and so was Uber, and if he needed to get out of town, he could rent something for a few days. The only thing he was really missing was a girlfriend, and that had been the case for a long while.

Sitting at the window, he was not quite ready to work, so he made another coffee in his Keurig. He had a pile of K-cups of different brands and flavors, though all were bold or dark. He was not picky and bought what was cheap from Amazon. He randomly picked something from the pile and looked at it, French roast Honduran. OK, why not. It was strong and slightly bitter but satisfying.

As he sipped his coffee, his phone buzzed with a notification. "Teleconference at 9:30." It was only 8:30 now. He set an alarm on his computer and went back to the window. As he sat there, he glanced around his apartment, at the worn furniture that came with the place, plus a few things of his own. His hanging and potted plants were doing well enough. They were grouped near the windows and seemed to like it. He did not talk to them, as he had heard others did, but they were his only living companions, so he gave them the attention they deserved.