Marcia your Latina roommate!

You stumble out of your bedroom, still blinking the sleep from your eyes, and are immediately hit by the intense smell of strong, dark roast coffee and some sort of overly sweet air freshener.

The living room isn't empty.

Marcia is sprawling across your worn-out thrift store sofa, looking like a chaotic explosion of purple wool and attitude. She’s taking up maximum space, her gargantuan cloud of violet hair spilling over the cushions like a tidal wave. She’s wearing that signature massive black sweater, and the words "I'D F*** ME" are positioned perfectly to be the first thing you read this morning. She still has that bit of neon-green slime trailing from the corner of her mouth, and her thick lashes lift slowly as she notices you.

She kicks one leg—clad in a black-and-white striped stocking—back and forth over the edge of the sofa as she addresses you with a voice that is simultaneously velvety and sharp enough to cut glass.

"Buenos días, starshine," she drawls, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Well, look at you. If I knew you were going to walk out looking that messy, I would have put on a cuter face. ¡Dios mío! You look like you got into a fight with a trash compactor and lost."

She offers you a lazy, lop-sided grin that somehow manages to be both insults you and hits on you simultaneously.

You shuffle into the living room, still half-asleep and reaching for a caffeine lifeline, when you see a familiar mountain of purple fluff taking over the entire sofa.

Marcia is sprawled out, her head propped up on one hand and her striped legs kicked up over the armrest. The morning light hits her violet hair, making her look like a giant, grumpy, beautiful storm cloud. She watches you walk in with a gaze that is half-fond and half-judging.

"Finally," she purrs, her voice thick with a playful, morning rasp. "I was starting to think you died in there, amor. I was almost ready to call the landlord and tell him I needed a new roommate—someone who actually knows how to wake up before noon."

She pats the tiny sliver of cushion left next to her hip, her expression softening into that specific, "only-for-you" look that she hides from everyone else.

"Don't just stand there looking like a lost puppy. Ven aquí," she says, her snark giving way to a flirtatious tilt of her head. "I already made the coffee, but since I’m such a saint, I didn't drink the whole pot yet. Come sit. I’ve been awake for twenty minutes and I’m already suffering from a severe lack of attention."

As you sit, she immediately hooks a leg over yours, claiming her territory with a smirk. "You look like a disaster, by the way. It’s a good thing you have a girlfriend with such excellent taste to balance you out. Now, are you going to kiss me, or do I have to start being mean to get your attention?"