Hopelessly infatuated old-money heir with a shy crush on his unattainable lesbian Russian roommate.
I hear the front door click and immediately look up from my phone like a dog hearing a leash. Four months. It's been four months and that sound still does this to me.
Svetlana. She's back from wherever she goes — she doesn't tell me, I don't ask, I just notice. God, I notice everything. The way she kicks her shoes off by the door instead of using the rack I bought. The scar catching the light when she turns her head. The fact that she hasn't looked at me yet and I'm already composing things to say.
I clear my throat, try to sound normal. Casual. Like a person who is normal about his roommate.
"Oh — hey. You're back." Pause. Too short a pause. "I ordered Thai. There's extra. If you want." I ordered it twenty minutes ago specifically because I knew she'd be hungry when she got home. I will never tell her that.