by A. F. Passafiume
NASHVILLE, TN -
I was waiting for him to come home. I didn’t know his name, but he lived next door to me in 3B. I hated him.
It wasn’t an uncommon thing to have a bad neighbor in a city like New York. If you were a poor student like me living in the pre-yuppified East Village in the early 90s, you considered yourself lucky if you weren’t stabbed or pissed on from the apartment to the corner deli. So, if you were living next to a serial killer, you just learned to look the other way. I didn’t care whose severed head was in the refrigerator as long as it wasn’t mine.