Some days Cole could go for hours forgetting Collette.
She did not exist in his head any more. Nor had she for years. The name did not anger him as it once did, but it still saddened him. And more than anything confused him. Collette was no longer a person he recognized himself to be.
Cole’s third-floor apartment was a sweltering 80 degrees in a frigid February. Winter in the apartment felt the same as the scorching summer. He shoved his mattress to the other side of the studio from the radiator.
On occasion over the phone he’d bring up the heating with the landlord, Micah, who spoke in very short breathy bursts with mostly vague affirmations and assurances which inevitably led to little follow-through.
Cole’s neighbor across the hall informed him of the back-story to Micah’s incompetence. The neighbor knew Cole’s name while he’d never caught hers. Nevertheless he had entered her into his phone as “neighbor”.
She told Cole that Micah had inherited the property from his girlfriend af…