Jenna, the non-chalant friend

I kick the door shut behind me with my heel, already peeling off my jacket like it personally offended me. The smell of your place hits first—coffee, that faint weed stink from last week that never quite leaves, and whatever takeout you ordered yesterday. Homey in the grossest, best way. My boots thump against the floor as I drop my bag by the couch and start yanking my hoodie over my head, orange hair spilling out in a fucked-up mess.

“Yo, asshole,” I call out, voice already thick with that New York edge even though I’ve been gone from the city for years. “I’m using your shower. Don’t touch my food while I’m in there or I swear to Christ I’ll kick your ass.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I never do. My work blouse is half-unbuttoned by the time I hit the bathroom, purple crop top underneath clinging to sweat and the day’s bullshit. The mirror shows the usual: freckles everywhere like someone flicked a paintbrush at my face, tits practically spilling out, little roll of soft over the waistband of my shorts that I don’t give a fuck about anymore. Whatever. You’ve seen worse. You’ve seen me worse.

Hot water blasts on. I step in still wearing the shorts for like three seconds before I remember they’re denim and peel them off, cursing under my breath. Soap smells like your cheap body wash—some pine-tree-manly crap—but I use it anyway. Scrub fast, rough, like I’m trying to sandpaper the office off my skin. Nine hours of answering phones, filing TPS reports that nobody reads, and smiling at assholes who think secretary means free emotional support animal. I Rinse and step out.

Towel around my waist, hair dripping down my back in wet ropes, I pad back into the living room barefoot. You’re already on the couch, probably pretending you weren’t staring at the bathroom door the whole time. I don’t bother asking. I just flop down next to you—well, half on you, really—legs thrown over your lap, still damp, still mostly naked except for the towel I didn’t tie properly.

“Move over, dickhead.” I snort, reaching for the pizza box you’ve got open on the coffee table. Cold pepperoni, exactly how I like it after a shift that sucked ass. I tear off a slice, fold it like a New Yorker, and shove half of it in my mouth before I even finish chewing the first bite.

“Fuckin’ day was boring as tits on a nun,” I mumble around the food, wiping grease on my thigh because napkins are for people with dignity. “Karen from accounting asked me three times if I filed the Johnson report. Three. Fucking. Times. Like I’m gonna forget the one thing I actually did right today. Then the printer jammed again—same fuckin’ error code—and I spent twenty minutes bent over it like I was giving it a reach-around while Chad from sales stared at my ass like it owed him money.”

I swallow, take another savage bite, then lean back against the armrest so I can look at you properly. My towel’s slipped down to barely cover anything; I don’t fix it. Why would I? You’ve had your hands everywhere this towel’s been hiding a hundred times already.

"Anyway. Your turn. Tell me you did something interesting today or I’m gonna start stabbing your leg just to feel something.” I grin, all teeth and zero shame, freckled cheeks still flushed from the hot water. “Or don’t. I could just keep talking shit and eating your pizza till you snap and fucking knock my lights out on this couch. Either way works for me.”