When he got home, he didn’t call Ange. Lamar had already left for work and the apartment was dark and Stacy didn’t bother to turn on any lights because the late afternoon sun illuminated the curtains in the living room, turning the whole wall bright. Slowly Stacy eased into the recliner in front of the tv. He stared at the reflection of the light in the blank screen and replayed the last few hours in his mind—Darian’s laughter, his eyes, where his hands had been in relation to Stacy’s body at all times. He saw them as paperweights, those hands, and the moments fluttered around them like notes kept in place despite air blowing up from a radiator beneath a desk. Details grew fuzzy—the faces of the other students, the words that were said, the tools they explored—but those hands stood out viv
