Concerning the Apartment

  When Taylor awoke, back in the apartment, the light was the sort of hazy amber dimness that contributes both to somnolence and bad movie sex scenes. Indistinguishable whether dawn or dusk.
  He also found another placid envelope.
  He kept reciting to himself how he really didn’t give a shit what Eric thought or wanted anymore, kept chanting it the entire time he slit it open with the matte knife.
  “There’s been a slight mistake with some vendibles,” it read, “but not one beyond restitution. Unfortunately I am indisposed, and thus I am in need of you to cover for me, much as I regret doing so. But you are my brother, more than my brother, and one who I can trust.”
  Bastard. Well Taylor was tired of covering for him. Brothers. If he thought Taylor would apologize for Eric’s consumer screw-ups, tried to plead recompense, he could go swimming in Sheol.
  He was sick. Sick of Eric, sick of the apartment, sick of the city, sick of his life. It was like a room full of oppressive bacteria, hundreds of poisoned people coughing and sneezing and vomiting, and he frantically trying to find pockets of clean air, pockets which did not exist. The only way to keep from joining them was to leave the room.
  And let Eric take care of his own problems for once. They may have had a tie, but it was in sore repair now.
  He didn’t even bother to pack what little he owned, just threw some things into his coat pockets, locked the door, and walked out.