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.
NO SMOEKING BY S LEE BENNETT 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 95
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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 after her sudden death years ago. He fell into a deep depression and pushed the apartment deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of his mind.
“It’s sad really,” Neighbor said while she ashed her cigarette on the railing of the stoop. “He should just sell it.”
Cole didn’t notice it was his turn to speak until Neighbor’s eyes narrowed and her lips stopped moving.
“Why doesn’t he?” Cole asked.
“I dunno.” She shrugged. “It’d probably suck to fail at your dead girlfriend’s business.”
She dropped the butt of her cigarette in the trash bin, hopped up the steps, keyed the door, and disappeared behind it.