Untitled Short Story


There are things that need to be done.  Dishes to start, laundry to fold, papers to be filed.  And yet I am standing here, in front of this dingy apartment door, on stained carpet with my fist raised to knock on the scratched wood with the dented but shiny plaque proudly reading “Apt. 415”.  I guess I have to hand it to her – no matter what else, she shines the stupid plaque every day.  It’s like she thinks that as long as her plaque is shiny, nothing too bad can happen.
Well, she’s wrong.

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