Apartment 180

Bright silver moon light cut the dark shabby room in half like a sword cutting its way though enemy lines. The gray moth eaten curtains lining the three square windows were closed to shut out the yellow glow from the street light on the side walk below. A thin sliver of moon light penetrated the loosely closed blinds and seemingly squeezed its way onto the floor, illuminating apartment 180 interior in a soft pearly white light

Apartment 180 was a single long narrow room, with peeling wall paper and uneven faded dark wooden floor boards. The three square windows were grimy and the white kitchen tile wall was gray from accumulated filth. A single rough, round, wooden card table sat in the very center of the room, a median dividing the kitchen from Miles' Walkers sleeping quarters. The kitchen consisted of a single cast iron frying pan, a dented pot, an ancient gas stove, and a small scratched wooden counter top. A tall glass cabinet sat adjacent to the sink full of mismatched silverware, assorted plates and bowls, and a single German glass beer mug. Miles Walker owned and lived above the Food Mart, rarely eating dinner in his own kitchen but instead behind the cash register down stairs which accounted for the lack of his culinary arsenal.

Opposite the kitchen was his bedroom. Miles slept on an bed built into the slopping ceiling so it was elevated enough to avoid the chilly drafts from the ancient floor. The mattress rested three feet from the floor which also was just out of reach of Miles' short legs. Every night, Miles was forced to haul over a three legged stool to give his bad foot a leg up. Tonight however, Miles was sleeping in the apartments sole rocking chair beneath the grimy windows, snoring softly, his head resting against his left shoulder and his knarled hands folded neatly across his Santa Cause belly.