The lights sometimes flicker, and the sink always drips. There is a crack in the doorframe. How many times has Oscar slammed it? Out of anger, frustration, sadness? It splinters and snaps, giving and bowing under an unseen weight.
"Why don't you fix it?" Felix has asked, more than once. His requests are thinly veiled demands.
"It'll hold out a little longer," Oscar proposes with an affectionate smile—directed toward the frame. "Why don't you?"
But Felix can't. He buys new light bulbs and calls the plumber, but the doorframe—he keeps. He is almost curious to count how many more slams it can withstand before the door comes crashing down on the apartment floor.
The apartment has eight rooms and every single one of them has some sort of structural issue. Felix has a mind to find out what buffoon built this fairly new apartment. And yet he is often reminded that it's been in Oscar's charge for more than a decade. If the floor tile is dislodged, or the wallpaper crinkles and chips like dead oak leaves, the fault lies with its keeper, not creator.
To Felix's utter frustration, (a feeling that has begun to make his jaw ache with anger and his nerves fray with fury) the rack in the coat closet suddenly decides to completely collapse—while he is standing underneath it. Jackets, trench coats, and hats (and even a leftover pastrami sandwich, whatever that's doing in there) belonging to both men land about him. Up to his knees in apparel, with a feeling of hopeless fury rising in his chest, Felix shouts for Oscar, who is elsewhere within the apartment. He doesn't respond, of course, because Felix is the roommate who cried wolf one too many times. But this time—this time…
"What is it?" Finally, a delayed response, like an echo.
Felix holds his tongue, so Oscar rounds the corner.
"I said: what—" Oscar stops when he sees the man in the coat closet, brought to his knees by the weight of woe and heavy fabric.
"The coats fell," Felix answers simply. "I think the rack was unbalanced."
And Oscar cracks a smile. It's an endearing smile, nothing cruel or mischievous. For the first time, Felix notices how soft Oscar's expression can be. There's a light behind his wrinkled eyes that makes Felix's stomach churn with general apprehension.
"Come on," Oscar says, extending a hand. Felix takes it. "I'll help you pick them up."
"Really?"
"Yeah, sure, Feel. Coats aren't a problem. Just don't try to fix the door. It's got another while left."