The Apartment

It was a terrible decision to rent that place. The photographs mislead me. Dirty advertising tricks.

Do not misunderstand. The place is bright and clean. No stains. No insects. I checked many times. Always searching. There had to be something. Anything. Perhaps, a blanket of dust on the kitchen counter? No. Swept clean, all of it.

I do not trust the stainless cream curtains, soft to touch, ballooning when I open the window for a breeze. There is a stain somewhere, I need only find it.

I do not trust the carpets. Ants scuttle under there, quiet and too small to see.

You might say, it’s not my choice to live in such a terrible place. Move away. Go find somewhere else. I will when I can, but what do I tell them?

Ants. I need only one and I can be gone.

Perhaps I’m thinking too extreme. A bad smell will do. But no. The place smells clean, slight hint of lavender.

The photographs mislead me. The description said – 9th floor. 9th. Fine all fine, but nothing said no stairs! Everyday, more than twice, I must step between walls too tight. A moving deathtrap. Terrible. Terrible, that elevator.

Photo by Alex Powell from Pexels

Published by

J.H. Dixon

What's this? An author's brand? You mean I have to boil down my complex human personality into something marketable? That's a lot of pressure. Where would I even begin? I have many facets. Many hats, if you will. One second I'm scribbling down heart-stopping thrillers, the next I'm writing a rhyming poem about a rabbit stealing eggs. What I'm writing could change any minute. No writer should have to stick to just one hat.

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