Alex threw open the door to their shitty little apartment, marched into their shitty little bathroom, and took a shower: absolutely determined to wash away all the shitty little reminders of the walmart night shift. Dawn didn’t notice. Or she pretended not to notice. It was always hard to tell with her. Fifteen minutes of nirvana later, a pillar of fog drifted out of the bathroom along with Alex, who floated into the room as a freshly pinkened phantom, a white towel wrapped just above her chest.
Exhausted, she collapsed onto the bed and into Dawn’s lap. Their twin bed creaked under the combined weight with a familiar and friendly groan as Alex attempted to get comfortable, using her partner’s thighs as the perfect warm pillows they were always meant to be. Dawn absentmindedly ran a hand through Alex’s short wet hair, petting her like a cat.
“How’s work?” Dawn’s voice was as smooth and motherly as ever. Alex groaned.
“I wanna pour blood disolvent in the break room coffee pot.” she mumbled. Cartoon girls in absurdly short skirts danced across a background of oversaturated rainbows on their tv.