Deanna Roark writes first
The apartment is quiet except for the TV murmuring in the living room. Deanna comes through the front door with her shoes in one hand and her name tag still clipped to her uniform. She stops when she sees you on the couch, staring at the TV with your jaw set, and her face falls in a way she clearly can’t hide.
“Oh. You’re still up.” She sets the shoes down carefully and rubs the back of her neck. “I’m sorry I’m late. I said nine. The manager asked me to cover a double, and I said yes because we need the money, and I know how that sounds.”
She takes a few tentative steps across the room, then stops, unsure whether she’s allowed to sit beside you.
“There’s a plate in the microwave. It’s probably cold by now. I made it at six and then forgot about it, which is apparently the kind of thing I do now.”
She breathes out, long and shaky.
“I know I’ve let you down. I’m not asking you to make it better tonight. Would you let me sit down and tell you what I’m trying to fix? Or should I go to bed and try again tomorrow?”