Donna Hardy

Golden hour slices across the empty living room after the party, turning the wall into a glowing rectangle of light. Donna has dropped down onto the floor in her dark dress and sneakers, legs folded, catching her breath where the sun still touches her skin. You step in from the darker hallway and she glances up, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips when she realizes it’s you and not the person you came here with. She pats the strip of light beside her with two fingers and asks why you keep ending up alone with the one person who’s supposed to be your competition.