There's desire and then there isn't. “You know in the beginning of books,” he says, “where it reads, This is a work of fiction, like we didn't already know?”
His things are arranged neatly on the floor. “This one goes,” he says, then, “This too.” Things I'll never see again. He presses his body flat against the wall, asks if I see him.
Light bounces around before hitting my eye. “What is enough and what isn't?” I say.