Merlot knocked on Alan's door in the dim hallway of the fourteenth-floor grey concrete apartment building.
The door flung open.
"Why are you here?" Alan's eyes widened, halfway to annoyed.
"You've been ignoring my messages—"
"I've been working," Alan cut in. "The landlord raised the rent. Fewer days off. Less sleep. You know—real problems." His gaze flicked over Merlot, sharp. "Don't you have your mother editing your novel for you?"
"Yes, but she went back to Canada. Now every reply takes forever."
"Then wait." Alan leaned against the doorframe, making no move to let him in. "I can't help you with it. I lost interest the second Felix left the army. That was the hook."
"It's getting better, you just have to be patient with me!"
"I think you're fooling yourself," Alan shot back. "Thinking you're good at something you're not."
"Alan! You're my best friend! Since Kindergarten. Friends don't fight."
"You forget why I left your apartment that day," Alan said. "You don't remember the past for what it was."
"Alan, my mind is clear as ever, since I stopped drinking—"
"That's the problem with you," Alan cut in. "I can never get through to you." He stepped back. "I have to go."
Alan shut the door.
Merlot stared at it, jaw tight. He wanted to pound on it, force him to listen—but the hallway stayed quiet, and the door stayed closed.