Apartment 613

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I always did get myself in ruts. Always. Everyone else usually realizes it before I do.

It's why every relationship I ever had ended with them deciding to leave me. Let's face it, compared to me anything would be a greener pasture.


I don't remember how I died, but I know I did. I know because nothing ever really seems to change here. I get up at 8:01 every morning. I have toast, Lucky Charms, and orange juice for breakfast. Then, I have a glass of water, so I don't have the orange juice and toothpaste taste in my mouth all morning.


I read the paper. It never changes, but I never remember the articles. The headlines stick in my memory, though the content flies away like dandelion seeds on a breeze. After I finish with the paper, I rinse my dishes and load them into the dishwasher, which is otherwise empty. 


I fill my cup of coffee and drink it while I stare out at the city. The city changes. Stores got out of business. Buildings get torn down. Cranes come and go. Different colored pigeons show up to crap on the sills.  Sometimes it rains or snows or the sky is gray. Everything else pivots around this building. 


For lunch, I will have a ham and cheese sandwich on the last slices of bread I have in the kitchen. There's an apple, which is brilliantly red, but bland, and a soda. I have two more sodas in the fridge, after I drink that one. 


I will log onto my workstation, where I am ignored until it's time to log off at five-thirty. I'm between relationships now, so no one will call. He took all his friends with him when we broke up, so I know I'll be alone again tonight.  I watch TV, always the very same  episodes of Law & Order, which isn't an indication I'm dead. Instead, it could be a function of how many episodes of Law & Order I've watched.  I go to bed at 10:30, after watching the news.


Today, at 2:34 PM, my rut is disrupted. I hear a soft noise and glance at my mail slot, where a piece of mail in a bright red envelope pokes into the room. In my excitement, I do not think of the impact I may make on the person on the other side of the door. I get up and fling the door open.


A man in a postal uniform stands in the hall, still holding the bit of mail he didn't drop. 

"Uh...hi."


"Hello. What are you doing here? How did you get so far into the building?"


"I'm doing my job," the postman answers, "there's a package to deliver. To the Landlord."


"Oh, no one ever sees him, unless you've forgotten to pay your rent, which I understand gets quite messy."


The postman gives me a strange look. He can't have reached the sixth floor without encountering a number of denizens of this building. He's youngish, alive, and in a uniform, I'm certain Marianne has been after him, it's her thing, after all.


"Well. Good luck to you," I say, as I close the door.


I mean it, too. Should he meet the Landlord, perhaps he can get all of us out of this damned rut.

Created: Jun 26, 2017

Tags: story, fiction, prose, weekly writing challenge

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