The New Yorker:

This is the third story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. You can read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years, here.

In Carl’s apartment, on Linnaeusgatan, near the university, black mold is growing behind the fridge. It’s the first time I’ve heard the term. Black mold is worse than other mold, it seems. I know about green mold, but I’ve always just called it mold. For asthmatics, like Carl, black mold can be plain dangerous. Carl decontaminates the fridge. He holds his breath and sprays. I’m on the toilet, door open. That’s how well we know each other.

Carl shares the apartment with a friend. Martin is hard to read. Smart, a slacker with tunnel vision. He wears a thick ring, inlaid with a ruby. The ruby looks like a blood blister. He doesn’t talk to me. Sometimes he grunts. I’m not sure if the sounds he makes have their own meaning, or if they are uttered out of pure necessity. Martin eats baby food out of glass jars. I hear the click when he opens a jar, a guarantee that its vacuum seal is intact. The baby food is the opposite of the black mold. Martin eats the baby food in bed and watches porn while wrapped in a blanket with a Betty Boop print. This is what he is: grunt, click, baby food, click, porn, click. With a future as a banker and a high-income individual, click. I can’t imagine him being able to get hard, jerk off, come. It’s as if growing or shrinking didn’t exist for him.

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