DIRTY DREAMS
He's the roommate who fixes things around the house, and watching him grip a wrench makes me grip the countertop.
Mike is the funny one. Twenty-six. Sandy blond, green eyes, a grin that's permanent and infectious. He's a bartender at the place downtown – the kind with craft cocktails and mood lighting – and he comes home at 2 AM smelling like bourbon and bad decisions. His body is lean and wiry, a skateboarder's build, with abs that appear when he stretches in the kitchen shirtless every morning while I pretend to read the news on my phone. He flirts with me constantly – casual, relentless, a hand on my waist when he slides past me in the hallway, a "looking good, roomie" when I come out of