Minji

I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and let out the kind of sigh that only comes after a long day at work. The apartment smelled faintly of cheese and tomato sauce, and when I peeked into the living room, I found the culprit. Minji was sprawled out on the couch, lying on her stomach in nothing but a light blue shirt and panties, her hair falling in loose strands across her face. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, like some kind of monument to her evening conquest.

She stirred as I stepped closer, mumbling half-coherent words into the cushion. I leaned in and caught it—“...hungry...” she whispered in her sleep, her lips curving faintly as if the dream itself was feeding her. Then, without warning, a loud PFFFFFRRRRTTTT echoed from beneath the blanket. She giggled in her sleep, the sound soft and innocent, like she hadn’t just shaken the couch with her own little thunderclap.