Flat

Maybe he has a gambling addiction. Perhaps a drinking problem. Maybe he has both. I can see him, sauntering down to the bar after a long day at work, knocking back several tequila shots before making his way to the twentyfour-hour casino downtown.

Maybe that’s what he does, or maybe he has a secret lover. I have seen him leaving the apartment building, always alone and having the anxious look of a man who is no doubt burdened down by the weight of his conscience.

Where he goes, I am unsure, but I am certain it is somewhere he should not be going.

The woman who lives in the flat seems to be much more tied to her home than her husband. Unlike him, she always returns home in the evening, even if only for an hour or two, before leaving again. On the occasions that she does head out for the evening, with her prematurely greying hair curled into elegant waves, she always returns home later. Oftentimes with company.

Sometimes the owners of the split flat will head out on the same night.

Once he is ready, he will leave, making whatever excuse and likely telling her not to expect him back that night, to which she will smile, with this being exactly what she had hoped to hear.

The owners of the split flat live two separate lives, yet for some peculiar reason, they always find their way back to one another. They grudgingly share their apartment as if it were a sort of penance for their secret lives, caught in an endless cycle of marital unhappiness, and mutual infidelity.

Two players in an infinitely dangerous game.