portion of the artwork for Nora Nadjarian's stories

Nora Nadjarian

I used to hear the apartment breathing through the keyhole like a chest heaving after sobs. Sobs and I were roommates for a while. They sometimes left the fridge door open and the kitchen froze. Close the fridge door, for fuck’s sake, I’m freezing, I used to say. It wasn’t us, it was you, they replied, or did you forget? I wore black 15 denier tights in bed, they were easily ripped, I woke up with ladders on my legs and a bottle of cheap wine in my arms. The landlord came round asking for the rent, on the dot, every month, his eyes darting round the place, as if he owned it, which of course he did. I wanted to stub out my cigarettes on his cheeks, to leave my mark on his ugly face. I am so frightened of doors, I lick keys, I told him, in my dream. But it’s not your fault, he said, you didn’t create fear.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 57 | Spring/Summer 2021