The apartment was white like a blank sheet of paper. Like one somebody had pulled out only to suddenly abandon their project. It didn't have any lines yet, not even for a basic sketch, and there were none of the minute creases left over from erasure. There was no way to tell who the artist was.

It could have been a toddler who wanted to try again to show his father that he knew how to spell words like "beautiful" or "fascinating" or "ambidextrous," only to finally figure out that the man just did not care and leave the thought to die.

It could have been a small boy wanting to doodle a dress as he decided he wanted to grow up to be a fashion designer, only to hear his brother coming and quickly shove it under his bed.

It could have been a teenager wanting to write a letter to his family and explain how he had accidentally ended up in another country, but that he was alright and understood that they were too tight on money to pay for a voyage home, only to remember that they wouldn't be terribly affected by the news and put off writing for later (never).

It could have been an artist-blocked college student trying to get a still-life portrait of a bowl of fruit down on a sheet of paper, hoping to do well enough to get a C for the mandatory art class, only to get frustrated and decide to push his luck with his professor, which was just enough for her to fail him.

It could have been a lonely man wanting to sketch a blueprint for an invention intended to help him seize control of his life or the Tri-State Area, whichever was easier, only to realize that he had not succeeded the first dozen times in either field and give up on such a ridiculous dream.

In any case, the apartment was beautiful in that way, still pure, still sterile. It was like a museum, cleaned to preserve its history. Or maybe like a piece in a modern-art museum, some sort of requiem. He didn't bother to change out of work clothes before sitting on the couch, trying to decide whether he'd bother eating dinner or not. He felt too sick to be hungry, but he knew that he'd probably be hungry in the morning. Of course, then he could just get an early lunch and he'd be fine.

There weren't any pictures and the furniture had clearly been chosen for cheapness. However, his weak imprint meant none of it absolutely needed to be replaced. It was more likely that sitting would break him instead of the couch, to be honest. He glanced at his phone, deciding he may as well order some pizza, take a slice, and stick the rest in the fridge. He noticed that the answering machine light was flashing. He pressed the button, figuring it was a way to procrastinate on deciding whether or not to get food.

"Hello, Heinz. It's me, Charlene."

Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Charlene did occasionally call him to work out plans for alimony or watching Vanessa, but she knew his work schedule well enough to catch him.

"I know you're at work right now, but I have a busy day today, so I thought I just ought to call and remind you that today is our little girl's birthday."

Instantly, the message ceased being mindless background noise. Was that really today? How could he have managed to forget? He looked inquisitively at the machine as if this would cause it to admit that it had been joking and the real message, a persistent telemarketer, was oncoming.

"Guess how old Vanessa is today. Go on, guess!"

"Thirteen," he said to the empty apartment, feeling foolish as well as insulted by the implication that this was a 'guess.'

"That's right! Sixteen. The years fly by, don't they?"

Again, he boggled at Charlene's words and wondered hopelessly if this was all an elaborate joke and the hidden cameras would come out any second now.

"Well, that's it. Talk to you later, Heinz."

Then again, it made sense. It had been years since he had really seen Vanessa, after all.

He was often called upon to watch the girl, but, most of the time, she would only go through the basic greetings, if those, before announcing that there was a party, concert, or date and she'd have to hurry or she'd be late. And Heinz may have wished for a bit more, but he remembered being a child and various moments when his father had forbidden parties, so he immediately bent. Besides, what else would she do? Hang out in a dingy old apartment with him for the day?

Still, three years seemed an obscenely wrong amount of time to be off by. She was old enough to learn to drive by now. She'd be old enough to drink in Gimmelshtump. He buried his head in his hands.

The phone rang, waking him from his thoughts. He chanced a look at the Caller ID and felt an indefinable urge to throw the phone out the window. He agonized over whether or not he should answer it, and every single factor he could think of told him he shouldn't.

He grabbed it and pressed the answer button.

"Hello, Mother."

Her voice was curt and empty. "Heinz, I need to know if you will be at our annual family reunion this Friday."

He grimaced at the thought and a long list of potential excuses flooded his mind, but in the end most of them were eliminated for being too far-fetched and he was stuck with a half-hearted "I've been working a lot of overtime lately, I don't think I can get time off."

"You know, your brother is the mayor of Danville, and yet he finds the time."

He bit back a reply that Roger had time to spare because he had never worked a day in his life. He bit back a few more and searched everything for a neutral defense.

"Alright, then. I'll tell your father you'll be absent. He will be quite disappointed."

Now, Heinz wouldn't fall for that one. It was a guilt ploy. An obvious one, too. She just wanted to keep up the illusion of health to their slightly more conscientious relatives, show him off as a quaint trophy of a problem son she had had to sacrifice so much for. He wouldn't bend. He wouldn't wouldn't wouldn't.

"Well, I suppose you're busy, I'll get out of your hair. I'm sure Charlene will be there, I'll be sure to tell her you couldn't make it."

"I still don't see why she's still invited to a Doofenshmirtz family reunion."

"She made a choice to keep the name, Heinz. As far as I am concerned, that makes her a part of the family."

He bit back even more remarks at this sudden and ironic policy of inclusion. Where had this been when he was a child?

"Anyway, like I said, I'll let you go. I don't want to bore you with our old-fashioned family traditions and all."

Now that was low. And just a bit pathetic. Calling on that silly type of underhanded insult. He didn't have an obligation to care about a family that had never even respected him. He was going to hang up before this extended goodbye started to get even more melodramatic.

"Mother, wait." As the words came out he felt like he was breathing fire, mouth aching desperately for some sort of escape.

Barely a whisper, he said, slow and quiet, "I think maybe I can work something out with my boss."

"Good." There was no emotion in the word, but Heinz could hear the smug smirk of passive-aggressive victory. "I'll make sure to set up the kickball tournament, then?"

He bit back enough words that he felt like he was going to vomit. "Sure," he managed to say in a perfectly pleasant voice before giving a mumbled goodbye and laughing to his empty, white, apartment.

The apartment was white, but far too crumbled and untrue to be like a sheet of paper. Not white as in purity, or sterility, or heaven or any high-minded ideal imagination of a half-there thought. No, more like the ashes left over from a forest fire. More like, maybe, the snow on the ground after a devastating winter storm. More like a white dwarf.

Like a dying stellar remnant that couldn't hope to sustain a planet, that no longer went through reactions, and was only held together by minimal bonds, heading toward an inevitable dispersal into parts.

Yeah, that sounded about right.