Thirty-Eight

Gia

Kian's room smelled just like him: leather, smoke, and engine oil. He hadn't made his bed this morning, leaving the comforter in a bundled heap. I had to straighten it out before I could lie down. His mattress was so soft it was like I was floating on a cloud. The same whitewashed walls flowed throughout the apartment. He wasn't big on cleaning. I could tell by all the dirty fingerprints around the light switches. His house was far from filthy, just disorganized.

There weren't any pictures or posters anywhere, certainly nothing that could tell the story of his life. Beast, Kian, or whoever he said he was, remained a mystery. He didn't own matching furniture; it was as if he'd gained things as the years went by. Bike parts were on top of every surface like greasy ornaments. My eyes landed on the ashtray full of cigarette butts, giving away the fact that he smoked. Was he the kind of guy who liked to light up after he fucked? I glanced around to see if I could spot any feminine ite