>does he wear cargo shorts?

He’s got a pair hanging in the closet. Occasionally he puts them on, and stares at himself in the mirror.

For several minutes he just stares at himself. Look at those pockets he thinks to himself. I could store anything in them.

The door creeks and he’s startled. It’s his husband. With a worried look he stares at Buttigieg in the mirror, their eyes meet in its reflection. “Am I interrupting?” He asks.

Pete says nothing. He stares, motionless, expressionless. The low hum of a passing car builds and fades away. “…Yes,” Pete says.

Slowly, his husband backs away, and shuts the door.

Sweet solitude Pete thinks. He stares again, this time meeting his own gaze. I am a man. I am powerful. These pockets. The storage. The potential. They’ll never understand.

A sudden realization. Pete glances around the closet, frantically searches, finds hanging from a coat pocket the object of his desire. He pulls it out and wraps it around his waist, fastens the clasp, the soft click of the plastic teeth of the buckle sends shivers down his spine. The shiver is of security, of utility, the sense that now, more than ever, he can store anything, everything. The neon green of the fanny pack reflects against the white of his polo.

“Now,” he says to himself, “I am complete.”

In the bedroom, sitting with his face in his hands, his husband sobs, a soft whimper unheard, unknown.