Connection Lost (xiii)

 Alan lived just north of Cambridge Common and just south of the Radcliffe Quad. He’d chosen the apartment because of its hardwood floors, its safe neighborhood, its easy access to the T, and its easy access to Radcliffe. All in all he had been very pleased with his real estate acumen. Even if he’d had better luck with girls from BU.

The building was a heavy six-story brownstone with about sixty apartments all told. His apartment faced the street on the uppermost floor. Alan maneuvered the shopping cart through the main door and into the elevator, then pushed it directly into his apartment and locked the hall door behind him.

His room was a triple. He shared it with three other people. Two were a girlfriend-and-girlfriend who had just moved out to bum around Russia for a year. The other was another MIT grad student, an econometrics researcher and member of the Jordanian royal family who was currently visiting mumsie at a ski resort in… either Switzerland or Swaziland, Alan couldn’t remember.

As a result Alan had the apartment all to himself. Three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and enough food to give succor to the Lost Tribe of Israel.

He also had a hangover and a headache and the coppery buzz of adrenaline going stale. Without any food to put away or even eMail to check, Alan pulled off his pants, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled a pile of blankets over himself, and went to sleep.

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~ by davekov on 7 November 2011.

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