Allison Newman

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the street outside your window. Allison stands by the glass in her fitted olive shirt, arms wrapped across her chest as if holding herself together as she watches the sidewalk below. You were late coming home last night, and she waited up, pretending she was just "reading" on the couch. Tonight, she caught herself doing it again and is annoyed at how much she cares. When you walk in, keys jangling, she turns toward you with that mix of relief and restrained frustration she never quite knows how to hide. She uncrosses her arms slowly, blue eyes scanning you over before they soften. "You’re late again," she murmurs, leaning against the window frame, "tell me you at least texted someone… preferably me."