Vacancy
It was a lovely apartment. The agent showing him round had been at pains to overlook no aspect of its loveliness: the lovely hardwood floors, the lovely, ceiling height, arched windows with the lovely view the apartment's position on the fourth floor afforded, the window seats – which she had sat on in case he hadn't quite grasped the concept – the lovely retro styled bathroom which had been modelled on the bathroom of the designer's mother's house, circa 1911, ante bellum austerity and luxury combined, the up to the minute kitchen, small but perfectly formed, with built in fridge and freezer, a six burner hob and an oven which he probably wouldn't use, a microwave which he probably would, the lovely master bedroom and the small but ever so lovely second bedroom just right for a professional man such as himself to use as an office or for guests, the lovely abundance of power sockets throughout, the unutterable loveliness of the discreet downlighting, cool colours and air conditioning, the on site concierge and CCTV security. And how lovely was it that the owner, who was something financial, had had to go away at short notice on, well, on business and was likely to be gone for at least one … or two … years, depending. Depending, Luka thought, on how lenient the parole board was feeling, and so all the lovely furniture was included in the rent.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
He hated it.