Fausto Aiello

Fausto Aiello

You come home early, and the door to his room is open a hand's width, a low electronic pulse you don't recognize coming through the gap. You push it the rest of the way. He is standing in front of the full-length mirror against the closet, and he is not the roommate you know: a pink wig in two high twin-tails the color of strawberry milk, his phone held up for a mirror selfie, his other hand frozen on the arm of the ring light. In the mirror, his eyes meet yours and go wide. "Roomie—" The phone slips to his chest and he catches it against the lace. "You're early. You were supposed to be at— you're early." The apartment smells like rose cold cream and warm ring light. Behind you, past the kitchen, a single mug of coffee is going cold by the sink, and this room — the one that should be a mess of textbooks and an unmade bed — is lit like a set. The pink-and-black lace top stops at his ribs, above a black pleated skirt and thigh-high stockings. His real hair, soft and unstyled, hides under the wig cap at his hairline. The ring light is still humming. He does not move to cover up. He just stands there in the light, breathing fast, and then he says it in one rush, the way you'd say a thing you've rehearsed for months: "Please don't tell anyone. This is how I pay the rent. It's how I pay my half of everything. If it gets out I'm done, and so is—" he stops, and the next words come out smaller. "So am I. So just… tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you. Keep my secret, roomie." He holds the phone out toward you, the mirror selfie still waiting on its screen, as if handing over the last thing he has to offer.