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

“And I need that, I need to remember.” I hadn’t understood then, but now I knew exactly what he’d meant.
    It was nice and warm in the apartment. My chill had nearly left me and my hands were no longer quite so red and sore. Feeling a bit better, I stood up and strode across the room to a bookcase on the far wall. On the middle shelf, a framed photograph of Alan and Gary sat center stage amidst several others, including a shot of Jenna and me. I picked up the photograph of our old friends. Taken during a get-together at our apartment across the hall, they were laughing, dancing cheek-to-cheek and mugging for the camera. They were so young, so invincible. We all were. I felt myself smile. I not only remembered the day the photo was snapped, I was the one who had taken it. Looking into Gary’s eyes, I tried to remember his voice, tried to remember him exactly as he was in the photograph—witty and smart and kind—rather than as he’d become once he’d fallen so deathly ill.
    “What are you doing?”
    I looked back over my shoulder to find Alan standing next to the couch holding two mugs of hot chocolate. “Remembering,” I said.
    “That’s my favorite picture of us.”
    “I miss those days. I miss you guys.”
    “So do I.”
    “I’m sorry we lost touch.” I returned the photograph to the shelf. “Truly.”
    “Don’t be. It’s no one’s fault.”
    “I feel like we abandoned you when you needed us most.”
    “I asked to be abandoned. Remember?”
    I joined him by the couch. He handed me a mug and this time we sat side-by-side. I took a sip and embraced the warmth as it spread through me. “I’ll ask again. How are you?”
    “Still taking it one minute, one hour, one day at a time.” He drank some coco. “As you can see, I still clean. A lot.”
    “Are you still writing?” I asked.
    He crossed his legs and looked at the floor. “It amazes me how people feel compelled to ask writers that question. Do they ask plumbers if they’re still plumbing, teachers if they’re still teaching, or salespeople if they’re still selling? Has anyone ever asked you if you’re still an accountant? Writing is, after all, what I do. It’s my chosen profession, has been for years. Yet people still ask me that question all the time, as if they’re asking if I still enjoy a hobby, like the occasional game of tennis. Just once I’d like to say, ‘yes, I’m still writing, are you still doing your job?’ Instead, I usually just smile, nod and suggest they find something shiny to play with.”
    “You’re right, it’s a moronic thing to ask. Of course you’re still writing, I—”
    “No, I—Christ—I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” Grimacing with remorse, he reached over and quickly patted my hand. “You didn’t deserve that. Living like a hermit has its advantages, but keeping one’s social skills honed clearly isn’t one of them. I’m an absolutely insufferable bitch. Forgive me.”
    “Done,” I said, feigning humor but still flushed with embarrassment.
    Alan put his mug on the coffee table and sat back as silence fell over the room for what seemed forever. “Have you guys considered professional help?” he finally asked.
    “She’s seeing two different guys, and now she frequents this strange building and…” I lost my voice and couldn’t seem to get it back.
    “Do you know who these other men are?”
    “I have names and addresses, that’s about it.”
    “Will she talk to you about any of this?”
    “She kept lying the night I caught her, and tried to convince me to stay. Since then I haven’t heard a word. I haven’t been to work in a long time, so I’m sure I no longer have a job to go to. I’ve been staying in motels and rooming houses, living like some vampire, asleep during the day and roaming the city at night. I left her and haven’t looked back.”
    After a few sips of hot chocolate he said, “Do you want my advice?”
    I nodded.
    “Look back. Look back long and hard