Chapter 3: And Now Comes Malcolm

She sighs deeply, debating whether to ignore it, but she knows the consequences if she does. She swipes to answer. "What do you want."

"Excuse me, Miss Sally! And what do polite little girls say when they answer the phone?" Salvia physically recoils at the name. Her fingers tighten around the phone. "It’s Salvia," she hisses.

"Oh, please. I did not name my beautiful darling daughter after some kind of illegal street drug!" Salvia glances toward the door, where her date still stands, knocking again softly. "Mom, I don’t have time for this."

Malcolm hesitates outside Salvia’s door, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, as if that might somehow contain the lingering scent of patchouli that he can feel radiating off him in humiliating waves. He hadn’t meant to wear it. It had been a gift, a relic from an old roommate who claimed it was “spiritually grounding.” But now, standing here, his stomach tight with anticipation and mild dread, he knew exactly what Salvia would say. Patchouli is bourgeois. Essential oils are neoliberal snake oil. And yet the scent clings to him, an invisible marker of his own ideological weakness. He exhales sharply, gives his coat a final, useless shake, then another timid knock.

Her mother's voice still coming from Salvia's phone, "Well neither do I baby girl, but your landlord called me. Again." "Why the hell would he call you?" Salvia hisses back, trying not to let her roommate overhear her parental humiliations. "He says you still haven’t paid your rent from this month, and half from the last! And you gave him my telephone number as your 'financial liaison.' Now you go on and tell me, what in the world does that even mean?" Her roommate snorts. Salvia glares at him.

"Mom, I told you, rent is capitalist theft-"

"Oh, now, don't you start up with that nonsense. Listen, you have got exactly one week before he wanders down to that old court house and starts eviction proceedings. And you know how they feel about you down there! I swear on all that is Holy and some that is not, Sally Leah, if you call me asking for money after posting your nekkid behind on the internet for a bunch of nasty, weird little communists, I-" Salvia hangs up. She yanks open the door, and there he is. Malcolm.

Gaunt, sallow, draped in a moth-eaten overcoat despite the lukewarm weather. Greasy beanie pulled low over his forehead, eyes shadowed by the weight of dialectical materialism. His gaze flickers down over her outfit. His breath audibly catches. "Salvia," he murmurs reverently. "You look exactly like your butthole pics and smell even better." Her irritation immediately evaporates. She smirks, stepping aside. "I’d say the same, comrade, but you’re wearing patchouli, and that’s kind of bourgeois."

His face falls slightly. "It was a gift." Reveling in his shame, she gestures vaguely toward the couch. "Sit." As Malcolm steps inside, the air hangs thick with the stale remnants of incense, kombucha fermentation, and something else he couldn't quite place, but knew instinctively he didn't want to. Salvia stands before him, bathed in the dim glow of her phone like some kind of digital-age oracle. Then, with deliberate ease, she shifts her weight, lifts one leg slightly, and lets out a loud, unapologetic fart.

Malcolm blinks. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, the way a man drowning might gasp for air. Salvia holds his gaze, unflinching. "Liberation," she says simply. Helpless in the face of her stinky charm, Malcolm carefully lowers himself onto the cum couch. His frail frame sinks into its questionable depths. His coat shifts, revealing an item in his hand, a DVD case. He holds it up with something like pride.

"I brought something special for us." Salvia squints. "…Is that Battleship Potemkin?" He nods solemnly. "A meditation on revolutionary struggle, the inherent violence of oppression, and the inevitable rise of the proletariat. Essential viewing for comrades such as ourselves." She blinks at the DVD. Then back at him. "You realize I don’t have a DVD player, right?" Malcolm visibly falters. "You… don’t?" "There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, Malcolm."

He blinks rapidly, clearly thrown off. His thin hands clutch the case as though he can will a solution into existence. "I-I assumed-" He swallows. "I found it at a co-op bookstore for only two dollars. I thought it would be a thoughtful gesture." Salvia stares. Her roommate snorts from the kitchen. “Christ, man. She doesn’t even own a bed frame. What made you think she had a DVD player?" Malcolm’s face flickers between panic and shame. Salvia sighs dramatically, pushing off the wall.

"Fine. Whatever. We’ll just watch a YouTube analysis of it instead." Malcolm nods, visibly relieved. But before he can relax, Salvia smirks. "But first," she purrs, "you said you wanted to smell me." Malcolm stiffens.

Her roommate groans, louder this time. “I am moving out tomorrow.”