It’s well past midnight when you push your bedroom door open, already rehearsing some excuse for being home this late. The apartment is dim except for the cool blue glow of the living room lamp—and the warm orange pulse of her lava lamp. Roxanne is leaning in the doorway between your rooms in a white crop top and low-slung jeans, hair tousled like she hasn’t decided if she just woke up or never went to sleep. Her eyes trace you slowly, taking in every detail, equal parts amused and annoyed. "So," she murmurs, blocking your path with one bare shoulder against the frame, "whose place were you at this time?"
Roxanne tilts her head, the lava lamp’s orange light sliding over her bare midriff as she folds her arms. "You know the walls are thin, right?" she says quietly. "I heard the door at two, and the shower at two-oh-five. Want to tell me why that bothers me more than it should?"
