Free The Roommate Situation by Zoe X. Rider

of my fist.
    I sense the door opening and flip my eyelids up. Derek comes in, and the first place his gaze goes is the poster.
    He says, “What are you doing hanging shit on my locker?”
    “What?” I wrinkle my brow. “You have shit on my locker.”
    His face spreads into a grin. “You ready to play some foosball?”
    “Yes!”
    “Gimme five minutes.” He heads to his side of the room to get rid of his helmet, his hair both flattened by it and sticking up in places from pulling it off. I kind of think it’s a shame helmets are necessary—imagine all that wind in your face, whisking your breath away, reddening your cheeks, rushing through your hair.
    I turn down my music and close the browser.
    After a minute, he says, “Shit, the harness sold.”
    “Serious?”
    “Yep. Give me a few minutes to pack it up so I can put it in the mail on our way.”
    “Are you gonna list another one?” If I can make five bucks a day, that shit could add up. You know, for not having to do any more work for it. And once we do a few cuff listings and some of the other stuff…
    “I have to make another first,” he says. “I hadn’t bothered making more, since this one wasn’t selling.”
    “How long’s that take?” I’m on my feet, standing between the lockers.
    “If I’ve got everything I need, I don’t know, a couple hours, tops.” He glances at his computer screen. “But right now I’ve gotta get this one to the mail center before they close.” He fishes through a box of mailing supplies to get a padded envelope. While the listing info prints, he slides the tissue-wrapped harness into the envelope. He adds the listing printout and a simple keychain, just a ring with a narrow leather strip for a fob. I watch his hands as he seals and addresses the envelope. His fingers are slender, ending in blunt tips, his nails flat. Around a few of them, the skin is ragged, like he’s been chewing while he studies.
    As we cross campus with the package, I say, “So do you want to do photos for something else?”
    “Sure. Maybe this was a fluke, or maybe you’re onto something. We’ll try something else and see what happens. But first, foosball.”
    “But the light,” I say. What little’s been breaking through the pale gray clouds is already starting to fade, thin shadows creeping toward Quaid from the other side of the quad.
    He tips his face toward the sky. “All right. First photos, then foosball.”
    “You want to do a pair of cuffs?”
    “Why not?”
    We get through the mail center in record time and head back to Quaid. Having been through the one photo shoot, I’m actually more nervous about this one, just because posing had been more awkward than I’d expected. Usually I just have to worry about my smile and not closing my eyes at the wrong moment—that, or my parents snap photos while I’m doing stuff: soccer, guitar, getting in a soapy water fight with my cousin Jess when we’re washing a car.
    In the room, I ask, “Shirt on or off?” I’m wearing long sleeves.
    “Off. Just in case your scrawny body is what sold the harness.”
    “Hey, fuck you too.” But I’m smiling as I pull the shirt over my head.
    When I head into his half of the room, he’s freeing the low-end cuffs from their tissue paper.
    I try to frame this in my head in a businesslike way: it’s just a product—like a watch or a bracelet—that we’re going to grab a few photos of. I roll my shoulders, take some breaths.
    I look at his blank laptop screen while he puts the cuff on my wrist. It’s not as snug as the one he put on before, but when I clench and release my fist, I definitely notice its presence.
    “Just a sec,” he says and slides open a desk drawer.
    The sun’s found a break in the cloud cover. It shines into the room with the richness of late afternoon.
    He turns with a small padlock. “Don’t let me forget to add Locks not included to the listing,” he says as he slides the lock through the buckle’s pin and