The Anatomy of Wanting Him
I follow, pushing the door just enough to leave it slightly ajar.
If the rest of the apartment is art, his room is immersion. It’s more vivid, more alive. Immaculately clean, too, with a faint, pleasant scent of air freshener lingering in the air. Posters line the walls in careful alignment—bands, films, layered without feeling crowded. A customized guitar rests nearby, aged to the point that it looks almost a century old. And at the center of it all, a massive white bed.
“You can sit anywhere,” he says, switching on the electric fan.
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