Apartment Seven by Greg F. Gifune Read Free Book Online Page A

lifeless, antiseptic feel of a museum. The only thing wildly out of place was his tiny tabletop Christmas tree. Though pretty, it had seen better days, and looked like something he’d found in a Dumpster.
    “I’m sorry to come by after all this time without calling first,” I said.
    “Don’t be silly, what a wonderful surprise.” He motioned for my coat.
    I pulled my knit hat off, stuffed it into my pocket then slipped out of my pea coat and handed it over. Alan hung it on a freestanding rack just inside the door. “I just put water on for hot chocolate—I know, how Donna Reed of me—would you like some? Or I can make tea or coffee. Unless this is a vodka visit, in which case I can break out a bottle.”
    “Anything warm, thanks.”
    He stepped closer, crossed his arms over his chest. Alan had always been thin, but the weight he’d lost in the last few years left him looking frail and spindly. His tired eyes searched mine and I could tell he was surprised at the changes in me as well. Rather cautiously, he asked, “How’s Jen?”
    I stood there like a moron, unsure of what to say.
    He brought a hand to his mouth. “Please tell me she’s all right.”
    “Yes, it’s nothing like that, she’s—well—we’ve split up.”
    He seemed relieved, upset and shocked all at once. “Oh, not you guys.”
    I nodded.
    Alan pointed to a nearby couch. “Sit.”
    I did and he took up position on the edge of a comfortable chair across from me. Outside, the wind howled, as if to remind me I couldn’t stay and hide here forever. Sooner or later I’d be out there again at the mercy of night and those things that moved within its shadows.
    “How are you?” I asked.
    “Never mind me. Are you all right?”
    I thought a moment before answering. “I’m not sure yet.”
    “Fair enough.” He nervously straightened a stack of already straightened magazines on the immaculate smoked glass coffee table between us.
    I gave him a condensed version of what had taken place. Surprised and saddened, he remained quiet for some time. Finally, he said, “I’m so sorry. But Jenna was always crazy about you. She’s made a terrible mistake, that’s all. She’ll see that eventually.” He scratched delicately at his beard and sighed. “Why do we hurt each other so?”
    “Why not? The whole goddamn world’s burning down.”
    “Try not to be so cheery, would you?” Just then the teakettle whistle emanated from the kitchen. Alan rose from his chair and headed toward it. “Back in a jiff.”
    Alone in the room, all my old memories of this place came rushing back. Jenna and I had spent countless hours here, and Alan and Gary had hosted some epic parties back then. For years we had movie night, where we’d all get together, have dinner and drinks then settle in with a huge bowl of communal popcorn and watch a classic film. Other nights we’d play cards or board games or head out to one of the local theaters for a movie or a play. But the nights we stayed in were my favorite. Alan and Gary were only a few years older than we were but we were all so young then, just starting to find our way. I noticed a framed reproduction of the cover of Alan’s first published novel hanging on the wall, and remembered when it had been accepted. He’d been so happy and Gary had been so proud of him. We’d all gone out to dinner to celebrate. I assumed Alan was still writing full-time, but fondly recalled the days when he worked a day job and wrote when he could, often pounding away furiously on his old typewriter late into the night. In the years since, Alan had sold several novels, and while he’d never achieved best-seller status, he did earn a decent living. Even so, he continued to live in this neighborhood when he clearly no longer needed to. Jenna had once asked him why, and he’d told her this was his home, had been his and Gary’s home, and he saw no reason to abandon it simply because he could. “It helps me remember,” he’d said.