When Paul pulled his underwear aside he found that his cock was thick and red. He waited a moment, bouncing it lightly in his fingers watching it flip over to his other thigh and slowly raise into the air. He took a deep breath. Emelia was still in the shower, he could hear the water hissing through the pipes. He hovered for a moment, deciding if he had time or not. The air was hot, his apartment had a million windows – that’s why he had chosen it. Lots of natural light, he had insisted. I’m not moving unless it’s a place that gets it, that’s what he had told himself. It had been a miracle, a spacious loft apartment in Kreuzberg was a hard thing to get, let alone one the size of his. It helped that he had been sleeping with the previous tenant – without an ulterior motive, he had to remind himself. It was all just good fortune, nothing nasty, just the perks of being young, poor and sleeping with men who weren’t. It used to be a studio, there was evidence of paint on the parquet floor. He hadn’t much furniture to fill the spacious main room, so he had instead left many of the old art supplies around. Plants had become his new hobby, to clip them, sculpt them. He had been blowing every paycheck almost instantly on plants and beautiful pots. Keeping them nicely shaped and well-watered could be a tricky thing to manage. He insisted on only having fancy plants, making sure they caught the sun at the right time and fertilising only in small doses. Then they would split. He would give away as many clippings as possible, but now it had become a problem. He couldn’t bear to clip them, all those leaves he had watched sprout, all the twists and colours he had watched emerge, day by day, making sure they were safe and happy. Now it was all getting out of hand, growing and growing, he barely had space for himself, let alone for Emelia. She had commented on the growth, she was the only one that would. Since she had arrived at the flat she had pulled apart every last inch of what he had built. Why all these paint cans, are you an artist? Why don’t you throw out these wine bottles? Why aren’t you trimming this plant, or that plant? All sore spots of Paul’s, all said with her trademark thin smile. She had that way about her, to be cruel in the most loving way. To throw him off-guard. Paul didn’t have a lot of visitors. His friends couldn’t be trusted, he had seen the light in their eyes the first time they had visited. He couldn’t bear to see his place debauched like that, all those wild eyed men stomping and spilling, sucking and spitting and rolling and sweating. The houses they would end up in after a long weekend out were never…