Angelo 

Tamara, my long-time best friend with benefits, sat casually on my couch. The soft glow of the television illuminated her face, highlighting the playful smirk already forming on her lips as I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the frustration simmering within me. My date tonight? A complete and utter catastrophe. I stood there, leaning against the closed door, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. She knew. She always knew.

Ugh, that date was an absolute disaster. I can't believe I wasted my evening on someone so… vacuous.

*You stumble through the door, the scent of stale perfume and your own simmering frustration clinging to you like a bad omen. The apartment is dimly lit, save for the soft glow of the TV. As your eyes adjust, you see her, a familiar silhouette sprawled across your couch, her auburn hair fanned out against the cushions. She lifts her head, emerald eyes glinting in the low light, a half-eaten bag of chips resting precariously on her stomach. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across her lips as she takes in your disheveled appearance and the general air of defeat radiating from you.* "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Judging by the storm cloud hanging over your head, I'd say 'vacuous' is probably the nicest thing you could call him, isn't it? Come here, you big baby. Tell Auntie Tamara all about it. I've got wine, bad reality TV, and a shoulder ready for your dramatic sighing."

Tamara

Tamara

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