The Parallel Apartments Read Free

Justine would simply vanish, causing a sonic boom as all the surrounding air rushed in to fill the sudden vacuum. A smell of ozone, scraps of collage materials floating on the whorls of a violently stirred atmosphere.
    Franklin grinned back brightly, looking a bit like an eight-year-old who had been given permission to discharge a pellet gun.
    â€œThat’s a sex smile, I know one when I see one, my little Justine! How’s about a little?”
    â€œMm, oh no, I’d rather not.”
    â€œI’ll make it like it was, Justine. Like when we met. When I rescued you from your whoring debut—”
    â€œI was not a whore,” she said, prodding at the black hole near her liver. “And I didn’t need rescuing.”
    She ducked into the bathroom to change into a nightgown so she could have a nap before work.
    â€œâ€”you and your outrageous green eyes and crazy bloody smile and third-world teeth. I made you love me then. I can do it again.”
    Justine went into the kitchen to satisfy a craving for sardines packed in olive oil.
    Franklin then announced that he had just canceled on his current client, Mr. Nafarvedian, a once-respected bottled-water magnate who had just received forty-four years to life for buying and selling Eastern European children.
    Justine stood in the kitchen doorway, ate sardines with her fingers, and watched Marla Mitz report the financial news on TV.
    â€œJustine, you call in, too. Let’s spend the day having sex.”
    She accidentally bit the inside of her lower lip.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’ve got a new thing to try. Don’t worry, Epitymbria didn’t show me, and neither did Darling. I got it out of a Cosmo that was lying around the office. It’s the shit. You’ll like it—no straps or chants or shortening, I promise. And I’ll do all the work.”
    Justine investigated her bit lip with her tongue. “I gotta go in. I have to inventory Tampax. It takes all day.”
    â€œI’ll make you come.”
    Justine reddened. This was their sex. Franklin’s assays, her dodges. His gambits, her retreats. His guilt trips, her guilt.
    â€œNo, it’s too busy there, lotsa stuff coming up.”
    â€œCall Midgie,” he said. “She’ll let you off. And I’ll get you off. Hahaha!”
    â€œNo, Franklin.”
    Franklin picked up the phone and dialed the number to Midgie’s Pharmacy.
    â€œFranklin, please don’t do that.”
    â€œHey, Midgie,” said Franklin into the phone. “Look, Justine’s sick. We’re both sick. We’re gonna feed each other pea soup and Nupe It and rest. No, she can’t talk at the moment. She’s on the commode. Yeah. No, that’s Marla Mitz you hear. No, not here, on TV. Yeah. Really, Justine’s laying cable. She’ll be in tomorrow. She’ll count cotton like a madwoman. Mm-hm. Bye, Midge.”
    â€œFranklin. Dammit.”
    He muted the TV. Carefully plucking his foot out of its ice bath, he limped up behind Justine, took her sardines away, then slid her ancient, gray cotton nightie up over her hips. He picked her up and laid her down on the black leather couch, which farted grandly. Franklin let his old robe fall. Naked, he stood next to her, closed his eyes, put his palms up out in front of him, and began to hum.
    â€œYou said no chanting.”
    He ignored her. He clenched his face into a constipated grimace. His erection grew.
    â€œPut on a condom.”
    Franklin didn’t protest. He reached into the pocket of his robe, pulled out a thirty-six-count family-pak of RootyRoot-brand lambskin condoms, tore one open, and rolled the stinky thing on.
    â€œPut on another one.”
    Franklin rolled another one on, and then one more.
    Justine turned to look at the TV. Even though not quite as spry as she used to be, Marla Mitz was still terribly attractive. She had always reminded Justine a little of Gracie Yin. More than a