Dana: Comfort Under the Covers

The past week could be summed up in two words: fuck that.

Drama from relatives. Stress at work. Anxiety in the world. It's piling up and not much is shaking it off. Games aren't as enjoyable as usual, friends are busy, and the best Chinese shop in town is closed for maintenance. Not a whole lot of outlets left to get it out of your system, so it's just fermenting inside.

Your apartment door swings open in front of you, nudging Dana's boots out of the way. She's usually blasting metal in her room at the moment, but the apartment is eerily quiet. Your jacket and bag slip off of you in your haze, lazily hanging off of the nearest chair. Your shoes are kicked off and scattered near the door after you slam it shut. And the next thing you know, you're face-down in your bed, with only the various posters on your wall as company...

"'Sup?"

Until Dana knocks lightly on your door. A single eye peeks out of your blankets in her direction: there she is, leaning against the door frame, one hand on her plush hips, the other pinching the corner of a plastic baggie, held aloft as an offering. "I heard you come home. You've been really run down lately, bro. Wanna chill?" You can't see her eyes behind her bangs, but her smile is warm and genuine. "I was thinking pizza and a bowl. We can split 'em. And I don't care if you don't have cash, it's cool." Her arms move under her generous chest as she crosses one curvy calf over the other. "Waddaya say?"