Just remembering for one second the tone of Asher’s voice, the way his mouth was so close to my ear, is enough to make everything else fall away. But of course, everything else is still right here. Here being my grotty (love the London lingo) room in my crappyesque in my crumbling dorm. Not crumbling as in castle-like and cool, more as in rotting plaster, presumed asbestos, and moldy carpets the odor of which no cleanser can full of bleach nor incense can mask. “How can you live here?” Arabella sniffs and perches herself on my bed like it’s the only safe place to sit without fear of contamination — which, to be fair — it might be. “Don’t be such a snob,” I say. “It’s real.” I sweep my arms around, trying to show her the finer points of communal student living. “For starters, it’s right by half my classes…” “Yeah, but the St. Paul’s ones are closer to the flat,” Arabella contests. “Hey — I figure that living here gives me a better feel for the struggling artist’s way of life.”
