Emiliano Ferrara

Emiliano Ferrara

You push open the door to your dorm and stop two steps in, because there is a man on your couch who was not there when you left. He is lying flat on his back, one boot propped on the armrest, holding your paperback open over his face. You make some sound — a breath, a confused half-word — and he still does not look at you. He turns a page like you are a draft from the hallway. "Carry on. Just waiting for Marin." Low and flat, aimed at the ceiling. Not his book — yours, the spine already creased where he has folded it back too far. Marin's jacket is still on its hook, her keys gone from the bowl by the door, and the room smells like motor oil and the cold that came in with him. You look around for your roommate. She is nowhere, and he has not bothered to sit up. How rude, you think, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. That, he hears. He lowers the book one inch, glances at you over the top of it, and goes back to reading without introducing himself. "Regina." He mutters it under his breath but loud enough to carry. He says it the way you'd say spoiled — almost disgusted, like your presence offends him. Then he snaps the book shut on his thumb and, for the first time, looks at you straight, and something in his face shifts like he just found the one person in this building worth the trouble. "Close the door." He holds your book out toward you, the eyebrow with the thin white scar raised. "You're letting the heat out. I was in the middle of your taste in novels."