I had an uneven corporation. So I crawled into a version of myself that was more elastic. Even fly guys fluttered a wager for a finicky media. Secretarial assistants dipped their cigarettes into broth. More and more, I sought out Simon in the cancerous video department.
The bus didn’t come for ages. A pigeon summarized our silence.
Eventually, you said, “I’m leaving.”
“For what?” I said.
The bus arrived. The doors confessed. The driver gave us change in the form of awkward facial expressions.
We purchased two candles for our evening woman. One was the size of Andorra, the sovereign landlocked microstate on the Iberian Peninsula. The other was an effigy of Boutros Boutros Ghali, the former secretary-general of the United Nations. You probably shouldn’t campaign for bad meat, she said. She took all her clothes off. We didn’t appreciate her political posturing.
I lost my apartment. It was in a high-rise mixed-use development. If you lived in an apartment like that you would be smiling. I lost it because I didn’t bother with the bills. I just didn’t like them.
My neighbors overlooked my labored chimpanzee. They tolerated my evenings playing surgeon. When I left, they said ‘electricity is nothing to be ashamed of.’
They clasped my hands, patted me on the shoulder.
I felt warm and handsome.
For many nights after, I thought about that apartment.
I lay in a new bed in a new city and mulled it over.
Three rooms. A balcony. A painting of a pitiful airport.
How many apartments can you absorb if you vanish without saying I love you?
Jonathan Cardew won a travel toothbrush at a boules competition in northern Brittany. His stories appear in Passages North, Cream City Review, wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, Superstition Review, Best Microfiction 2021, and others. He is the author of A WORLD BEYOND CARDBOARD (ELJ Editions) and the blog editor for Bending Genres. Ignore him on Twitter @cardewjcardew.