Apartment Seven Read Free

felt good. It felt harmless. When he’d text me it was with the nickname Mysteryman2000, it—I know it sounds silly and immature—and it was—but it was like a game, that’s all. We started talking on the phone a few weeks ago and it just got out of hand. It meant nothing. I’m sorry.”
    “Have you been seeing this man?”
    “We had lunch a couple times but that’s it. The rest was by phone or text.”
    “You had lunch together?”
    “Only a couple times.”
    “Last time I checked that’s called a date.”
    “We’re just friends. OK?”
    “No, it’s not OK. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
    “You know I love you.” She bowed her head and fiddled with her hands. “And only you.”
    “Maybe that’s not enough.”
    “You promised it would be.”
    I looked at her, unsure of what to say.
    Suddenly, Jenna scooped up her phone and hit redial. “Hey,” she said a moment later. “It’s me. No, I’m all right, it’s just—look—this has to stop, OK? It’s gotten out of hand and I can’t do it anymore. No more calls, texting or emails. I’m sorry.” She hung up, looked at me. “OK?”
    “Let me see the phone.” I held my hand out. Eventually she placed it in my palm and moved away. I checked the text history for Mysteryman2000 and found so many messages it would’ve taken me hours to read them all. I scrolled through a few, scanning them enough to get the gist, which was exactly what I’d thought it would be.
    “It’s done,” she said. “It’s over.”
    “Yeah,” I said, rising from the couch. “I think it just might be.”
    “Charlie, please don’t do this. It was nothing, nothing at all.” She touched my arm, tenderly at first, and then harder, as if determined to hang on no matter what. “Don’t go. Please , don’t leave me all alone. We can’t make it without each other.”
    I gently removed her hand from my arm. I’d never felt such pain in all my life. And this from my wife, my best friend, a woman with whom I’d spent the majority of my adult life, been through so much with, kicked a terrible habit with, built a home with and loved and trusted with my life. All I kept asking myself was how could she do such a thing? And why?
    Even with the time that had passed since, it still didn’t seem real. But then, when you’re walking straight into Hell nothing ever does. You convince yourself it’s a nightmare and you grovel for temporary damnation, all the while still not really believing any of it. And then you start to burn and you realize there’s no turning back, no way out, no do-overs or prayers that will save you. It’s real.
    And the night, beautiful slayer that it is, it survives too.
    “ Read any good books lately?”
    The harsh baritone came from my left and belonged to a grimy, disheveled old man who sounded as if he’d spent the better part of his life gargling crushed glass. He flopped onto the barstool next to me with the grace of mashed potato hitting pavement, stuffed an unlit, saliva-soaked cigar butt into the corner of his mouth and chomped away. I did my best to ignore both his question and the grotesque slurping sounds emanating from him, and signaled the bartender for a refill on my vodka on the rocks.
    It was late afternoon when I’d gotten there. Dusk had already arrived and was becoming a cold and unforgiving winter night, and although I’d never been to this dreary little bar before, it seemed as good a place as any to escape the chill awhile. A tiny hole-in-the-wall tucked between a derelict three-story walkup and a boarded-over video store, it had no jukebox or dance floor, not even a TV above the bar, and catered to what appeared to be a limited clientele of grizzled regulars, including the man on the stool next to me who for some reason had interest in my reading habits.
    The man asked his question again. “Read any good books lately?”
    I offered an insincere but polite smile. “Not really, no.”
    “Funny,” the man said,