2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3

Dark Apartment

by MATTHEW HEIL

He could find no better word for life

than flat. It spun out from his mind like tightrope:

his height, weight, age,

sexual proclivities, small fears, vague fears,

stultifying horrors. The count of freckles on his hand,

the number of operations—his one true hope. All his

life had organized itself,

done in by its own weight.

He would walk to the same bars

in the flatfooted gait left him

from the box that was his office,

stare down at the puddles lining the street

in mute appraisal,

and trace the cracks with his eyes.

There he would drink

until his mind swam in velvet

and eventually, he'd lead a woman away

into the black pit of his apartment,

watch in surprise as she was eaten by the shadows,

devoured limb by limb,

and spat back as a crystal—

bright, shining and untouchable.