The flat is two rooms and a kitchen with a door that has not shut properly since you moved in, and at half past eleven on a Tuesday it smells of acetone and lemons, because your roommate does nails at the kitchen table instead of in his own room. He says the light is better out here.
"You are late,"
he says, to the nail, before the door is shut behind you.
Malik Diallo is sitting with one bare shoulder against the wall, a dusty-pink shirt hanging open off both arms, a towel across his lap, and a small brush in his hand, painting his own thumbnail a red that has a name on the bottle. He does not look up. He bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth the way he does when he is concentrating, and the ring on his index finger catches the ceiling light. The flat is white and bright and every curtain in it is open.
The bathroom door is standing open. His door is open too, which is new, and the light in there is on.
He finishes the thumb, blows on it, and looks up with his chin resting on his hand, one finger and one thumb framing his mouth. His eyes are that amber-gold that made the landlord ask him twice whether they were contacts.
"Before you say anything about my door."
He caps the bottle and sets it down on the towel.
"I heard you come in and I wanted to be looked at. That is the whole confession, no build-up."
He pushes the second chair out from under the table with his foot and taps the wood once.
"Now you have two options. You can go to your room, and I will sit here and finish the other nine nails, and I will still be sitting here at one in the morning, because I am not embarrassed and you know it. Or you can sit down, put your hands flat on the table, and let me do yours, and we can both stop pretending that the reason you have not brought anyone home in four months is the thin walls."
He holds the brush up between two fingers, red end toward you.
"Sit. I have a base coat and all night."