It was raining outside, not some hellish power outage, get the candles and pray kind of rain just a light shower, sun still out, devil beaten his wife kind of down pour. The type of rain from the old Irish springs commercials. Fog on the windows from the chill of a September mourning.
cold hearted she beast with a gleam in her eye of a woman scorn. she always did hate me i thought, my judging, under sexed, over paid for whatever it was she did. but i had other things to deal with at the moment. mainly the serious ache in my back from an undeserved knights sleep outside our apartment door making the sweetest of apologies to an empty living room, "I'm sorry Katie but if your father had liked me he never would have asked me to be brutally honest with him."
It was only after the neighbor gave me a key that I realized it didn't’t matter at this point. As it would turn out she had come in the cover of darkness to retriever what was considered worthy of taking, myself not included. The wreckage that was left could only be understood by people who had lived it. To any passerby it would seem nothing more then a ramshackled den of ill repute but to me it was home. How fucked up is that.
Within twenty minutes of being “home” I'm woken up to the worst racket of my day, the banging on my door from what could only be the land lord. I open it to find a five foot short, balding man with pinched eyes and a voice that can only be described as male Fran Dresser with a thicker New York accent “what do you need Mr. Happalogan?” I ask already knowing and simultaneously wondering if he had always looked that much like a California Rasin. Mr Happalogan looking less then happy to see me said, “rent! I need your week late rent!"