He could have arranged a meeting, but this option was closed. He’d have to climb over the gate and hope he didn’t get caught. Artie’s front gate was always locked. An intercom system protected the property. But what he counted on was Artie’s cavalier attitude that thought of Charlie as too much of a flake to murder him. And this is what really chewed on Charlie’s nerves—the perception that he was indeed too much of a flake and too much of a weakling when these traits were simply misinterpretations made by arrogant people. All he was trying to do was judge whether or not killing another person was the right path to take. That’s not being flakey or being weak, he surmised. It was simply judging the fear of what would happen if he didn’t cooperate with a system that didn’t allow him to ascend beyond the number of his name. It was the fear, he figured, that was the main problem in his life—the fear to question, the fear to offend, the fear to tick someone else off, the fear to get. In two weeks she had broken the lease on her apartment and moved in. Her crackle-painted Louis XV chairs harmonized strangely with my sleek black Italian leather sofa. Her wardrobe astounded me. There were half a dozen duffel bags full of shoes and a small mountain of stylish, designer clothes in the middle of the living room. We'd spent the whole weekend moving her in. It was Sunday night. We'd finally finished getting the last few boxes and collapsed together on the couch, nestled in amongst a tulle petticoat and a bag of bathrobes. For a moment, I felt cold and numb; terrified, really. What the hell was I thinking... there was no way this could work... my god, she's here, she lives here now, she lives in my apartment... what the hell did I do? Then she wound both of her little arms around my arm and pecked my cheek. All of my doubts melted away in a warm haze, and I pulled her close. She slid in to my lap and rested against my chest."Welcome home," I told her, grinning. She.
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