The whole store is pretty deserted, and there is no one there to ask me what the hell I think I’m doing as I place my back on the metal shelves and slide down to the floor.

I lean my head against a pen display (fine point, 0.7 mm, and comes in five colors. I should give one a whirl before I leave here). So Charles and Dylan are going to get married. I realize that’s the first proposal I’ve ever witnessed that wasn’t my own.

But my own proposal to Jordan certainly had a lot of witnesses. It happened at the fancy Mexican restaurant where we’d had our first date. I called ahead to set everything up: the peonies on the table, the ring placed inside a beautiful chocolate rose on top of her flan, and the bottle of Veuve Clicquot afterward. I got down on one knee as soon as they brought the dessert out, so happy to present the ring that had been burning a hole in my pocket for weeks. So happy to watch Jordan’s face.

She looked elated. I’d gotten the ring off her Pinterest page, so I knew she liked it. And when she said yes, the whole restaurant burst out into applause. The maître d’ even led everyone in a toast to us.

Looking back on it now, I wonder if that’s what really made Jordan so happy. The fact that there were people to approve of her big moment, like the real-life version of social media likes. I think it’s quite possible that Jordan smiled more at the people applauding us than the person kneeling in front of her. Dylan, on the other hand, hadn’t cared how his boyfriend proposed. He just wanted Charles.

I sigh as I pick up the crumpled Metro page, not really expecting to find anything there. (I mean, honestly, who lists housing in an actual newspaper anymore?) Sure enough, it’s a few room shares with a questionable number of roommates, a $7500/month studio on the Upper West Side, and one ad that I’m not sure should be categorized as a sublet or a missed connection. “Roommate wanted: the brunette in the lemon-print dress that took the A train at 5:16 p.m. on Tuesday. You wear that dress every day; I will make you lemon pancakes every morning. Southern-facing windows, private bathroom (though you’re also welcome to share my jacuzzi tub). You pay half for cable and Internet.” Either way, I’m considering reporting it for sheer creep factor.

But then one listing catches my eye. It’s a building in the East Village, on Avenue A. Actually, I think it’s across the street from Café Crudité. I Google the address. Yup. It’s a 650-square-foot one-bedroom for . . . this can’t be right. $900 a month?

Obviously a scam.

Also. The ad rhymes:

So you want to live in Alphabet City . . .