Slamming the heavy oak door, she rushes over to the other side of the room, rain water squelching in her boots. Removing her bots in a rapid fashion, stripping the soaked wool socks from her feet and puts them on the hissing, chipped radiator. Removing her equally soggy raincoat, she goes to her coffee maker and opens up the white shaker cabinets to find her favorite roast. Starting the coffee, she walks upstairs and changes from her constraining work clothes and into the welcoming embrace of fuzzy gray sweatpants and matching hoodie. As the aroma of coffee beans diffuse into the air upstairs, she comes down the stairs, noticing the worn ikat patterned carpet that has permanently captured the size of her feet.
After the coffee is poured into an old mug from her high school days, she curls up on the pink couch. This pink isn't a little girl's pink, but more modern; a woman's couch. On second thought, she stands up and drifts to the fireplace, turning the gas on and hearing a resounding swoosh as heat comes. Grabbing a quilt made with love from her grandmother off a high wingback chair, she finally settles back on the couch. With coffee in hand, cocooned in a blanket, and the heat turned on, she looks content.
But she doesn't feel the same way.
The shifting of the apartment makes echoes in the empty hallway, bouncing off the barren walls. She thinks of no one home to greet her, smile, or even accompany her on rainy evenings like this one. All at once, she realizes something.
She is utterly alone, a girl wrapped up on a pink couch in the middle of winter with no one.