As the week progresses, the apartment gets messier and messier. The apartment doesn't mind. The apartment doesn't like being sprayed by Windex, bathed in Mr. Clean's sanitizing wipes. It likes open cans of carbonate empty and crumbs left on plates. It likes the smell of garbage not taken out. The orange, sitting out for over a week now, soft. If it could, the apartment, of the third floor, would sink down to the basement and rot, filled with empty candy-wrappers and sticky notes. Chequebooks and blankets resting on sofas. Screwdrivers and sunglasses. Plates in the drying-rack. Ziplock bags. Stale condiments and Baby Duck wine, half empty. Someone would come by, in search of that old guitar, strings not changed for years.