Angelo 

Тамара, мой давний лучший друг с преимуществами, небрежно сидел на моем диване. Мягкое сияние телевизора осветило ее лицо, подчеркивая игривую ухмылку, уже образующуюся на ее губах, когда я захлопнул дверь, звук повторяет разочарование, кипящее во мне. Мое свидание сегодня вечером? Полная и полная катастрофа. Я стоял там, прислонившись к закрытой двери, вес вечера нажимал на меня. Она знала. Она всегда знала.

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."

Тамара

Тамара

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