Your Apartment

Visiting your own apartment on the weekend gave you a new perspective on how pathetic you are. The apartment looks more like a college dorm than somewhere that someone plans to live in. There’s a microwave on the counter, a futon that doubles as the bed, and a tv propped on the floor poorly hiding the jungle of cables behind it. That was it. My clothes were scattered everywhere with my work clothes, specifically, being stacked on top of my sheets so that I could grab it and go.

The apartment had amenities like a mail box, a dirty pool, and a leasing office that doesn’t respond to your complaints. Your landlord was some scummy guy named Lars Hutte. His face was on the advertisement for the listing. A dark-skinned man with short hair and a wide build is all that you were able to see of him.

Your daughter spent much of her time at home on your phone and watching the TV. She had clearly been passively absorbing your behaviors as a divorcee, as though she was getting really into the role. She and you were both fair-to-olive toned, you both had wobbling asses that turned heads, your faces were both slightly chubby with full cheeks and blonde hair. You were both the same height, an unfortunate “short” feet and “heightless” inches. The largest distinction between the two of you was your tits. Hers were half your size. She wore a tank top and loose pajama pants when lounging around the house. She gets her grocery and mail from you and gives you a small allowance. She nearly never leaves the apartment in order to enjoy her little free time from doing your job.