I flick on the lights and open the door. We are using the back entrance, having taken the narrow back stairs that were the only entrance to the illegal attic apartment on the third floor, back when it was an apartment, but we stop at the second floor rather than climbing up to the attic. That unfortunately gives him a perfect view of my kitchen as we walk in (there are only two roaches on the wall by the stove, surprising me - they usually start to get frisky in the late afternoon).

Expressionlessly, Magister fiddles with the knobs on the nonfunctional gas stove, and the hot water handle on the sink that only produces cold water. I've been letting a small but steady trickle of frigid water drool out of the faucet for several days now; I don't want the pipes to freeze and burst. I have no idea when my landlord would get around to calling a plumber to fix the problem were that to happen, and I'd probably be charged for it, anyway.

We walk through the bare living room to get to my bedroom. There might have been some roaches in the living room. I've never paid attention, having had nothing to put in it. The same goes for the second bedroom.

He takes in my bedroom as I gather up my worldly possessions, such as they are. At least, thanks to the little ceramic heater I splurged on last month, the air in here does not make his breath fog, the way it does in the rest of the apartment (he would be seeing my apartment during the week we had a severe cold front sweep in, cold enough to make breath fog in the unheated rooms - usually, now, it's cold, but it's not this cold). The heater isn't powerful and doesn't warm the room well, but it's better than nothing at all. I do my best to give it some help by keeping my room well sealed with a rolled towel shoved up against the door. Drafts don't get in from there. I also have newspaper taped over two of the three windows for extra insulation, and I've put plastic sheeting on the third. If I stay in bed with the electric blanket on, I can take off my coat, and sometimes even my sweater.

I'm not supposed to leave the heater on when I'm not in the room. Abandoning an electric heater is a fire hazard. However, if I turn it off when I'm gone, my room never gets warmed. It's UL-listed, so that makes it kind of safe to walk away from if I absolutely have to, surely. And it's a ceramic heater. And it's new. It's not the kind of heater that's likely to make sparks.

"This... this is where you have lived since November?"

"Yes."

"How much have you been paying for it?"

"Three-fifty. Not bad for a two-bedroom apartment. I would have preferred staying in the attic; it was only a hundred and eighty-five per month, and it cost less to keep the utilities on, but the health department made my landlord evict me from it because it wasn't zoned for rental."

"You're paying for all your utilities?"

"Everything but water and sewer."

"I presume that's why you have no heat. I wish you had said something earlier. I could have told you how to apply for heating assistance if you didn't want to accept help from me." He looks out the window at the setting sun, and at the street, with its sidewalks covered with broken bottles and used diapers. Then at my bedroom again. "This must have been hard to adjust to, after the wealth you grew up taking for granted. Oh, my eromene, why did you not say anything? This? This is where you have been living this past year?"

"Well, you know what they say. Freedom isn't free."

"No. I suppose it's not." His voice is shaking. "Well. Let's get everything packed up. I'm going to go to the kitchen to see if there is any food we need to take back with us, since I have had reason to suspect you might not have been eating the grocery items I gave you to keep you from starvation."

"Just a box of granola bars."

"I'll get them. I am not going to let this happen again. Your living conditions are endangering your health and your well-being. You should have told me. I do not like that you have done everything in your power to conceal the misery of your situation from me, and we are going to have a discussion about that when we get home. Concealing an unpleasant truth is a form of lying by omission. Lying to me is unacceptable, no matter what the reason was for lying. You knew that. The foundation of our relationship, you will recall, is perfect love and perfect trust. I made that clear from the very beginning. We do not lie to each other. We do not keep secrets from each other. People who trust each other do not conceal things from each other. I thought you trusted me." He sighs. "Suddenly, I feel better about asking you to move in with me. It may not be comfortable for you, but at least it will keep you safe and well-fed."

He leaves the room. I hear him opening and closing cupboard doors. He's looking for food.

I didn't lie to him about that. There really is only a box of granola bars left.

I sink down onto the floor, sitting hard, and crush my head against my knees. It doesn't make the room disappear, or make me disappear from the room, but I can at least wish.

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt.

As if things weren't bad enough, when he comes back, granola box in hand, I start to cry. "I'm sorry. I know I should have said something about my utilities being cut off, and my not being able to afford anything. I just didn't want you to worry about me. Or - or feel sorry for me -"

The wooden floor is an interesting study of discoloration. I'm not sure what needed to be ripped up from it after some earlier tenant moved out. Soiled carpet? Shredded linoleum?

He kneels in front of me and tips my chin up with his finger so that I am forced to look him in the eyes. "I know you are proud," he says softly, "but there is such a thing as going too far. I trusted you to be honest and share the important details of your life with me. As your Magister, I need to know these things, because they may affect the lessons I give you; as your lover, I am very hurt that you would not tell me about your sufferings. I think I've mentioned that it hurts me when you hurt. How could it not? You have crossed a line. You will not do this again. Do you understand me? We will talk about the consequences when we get back home."

"Yes, Magister," I sob.

"You are forgiven. Well. Let's get your things and help you escape your slumlord. Your new dwellings will not be a mansion like the one you grew up in, but I think we can agree that they will be a vast improvement over this."

My belongings, aside from about twenty plastic milk crates filled with books, fit in two old, battered suitcases, both of which are now sitting in his living room. My landlord can worry about my old mattress. I wasn't that attached to it; used mattresses are easy enough to come by. If you don't want to spend fifty dollars at a thrift store, you can just go curb crawling, which is how I acquired mine.

My landlord can also have the toaster oven my ex-girlfriend left behind when she left me.

My lease is officially broken. It's going to hurt my credit rating, but I'm not planning on applying for any credit cards, given my likely inability to afford making monthly payments on anything I borrow. I don't like the idea of breaking my formal agreement to lease the apartment for a set period, though. An agreement is an agreement. This just doesn't feel right.

It does, however, get me back into college in the summer.

Going through the recent course catalog Magister picked up for me is like being let loose in a candy store. It's been so long, so very long, since I sat in on a real lecture, or took a seminar. I want to sign up for everything, even the math classes and the paralegal studies classes that I know I have no aptitude for and won't ever actually use.

He watches me as I sit on the couch circling classes, my unpacked bags completely forgotten; when I emerge from my daydreams of lectures and seminars to look back at him, his eyes are wistful.