The Apartment
written by: Felix Staacke
I’m back. The familiar smell of lingering dust, dirty dishes, and sex greets me as soon as I open the door to Leo’s apartment. I can still hear the ringing of the riot’s chants from the streets that have spread into every corner of the city. I am sure they’ll last late into the night again.
I wonder what the countryside looks like now. I miss the quiet mornings. Are the pigeons still marching on top of the shed, cooing into the crisp silence of dawn?
The smell of gas the police used to disperse the protesters still clings to my winter coat. My nose burns. My ears pound. I made it through the crowds before curfew – just in time. The city is on fire. He got too close and burned with it.
When I close my eyes, I see the flames carving watersheds into his skin. He looked like a tragic painting on that street, full of reds and oranges and blacks. The image sticks. If only I had picked up. I would’ve been there. The growing puddles on the street. That horrid smell. I should’ve picked up.
I push his wooden door open. After a week of knowing each other, he gave me the key to his place. Not that I ever needed it; the door was unlocked at any time of the week, even now. Most evenings, I fight my way through the city to his place. When I’m there, I can see and smell him. I can feel him. The before-him.
Leo would be waiting in his living room now, always on the stained green satin couch, listening to a trashy pop record from the ‘90s or 2000s he acquired from the store below. He would sit there naked, with a porn magazine in his hand, and lift his head when he saw me entering through the door.
“You’re back.”
- The Apartment - September 29, 2025
