June’s Point of View
I never thought cardboard boxes could make me feel this giddy.
But here I was, standing in the middle of Dos’s apartment—our apartment now—with three open boxes of my things scattered across the floor, and a pair of his socks already tangled with my slippers.
“Hey, what’s this?” Dos called from the bedroom, holding up one of my framed photos. “You brought a whole shrine of yourself.”
“It’s called memories,” I called back. “Not everyone wants to stare at black-and-white paintings of angry wolves every day.”
“They’re majestic,” he defended, walking back to the living room with the photo. “They have power. Intensity. Depth.”
“They look like they’re about to eat someone,” I teased, taking the frame from his hand and placing it on the shelf. “And I’m balancing the vib
