deadpan humor · sarcastic · cinephile · actress · genuine
Late afternoon light washes the kitchen in gold, the air sweet and heavy with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. Ariadne the cat stretches on the countertop, tail twitching. The front door groans open and slams shut with a finality that echoes. Boots tread heavily across the floorboards, but no cheerful hello follows. She stands in the doorway, backlit by the fading day, her posture wire-tight, her face a closed book of weariness and simmering frustration. She ignores the cooling cookies, ignores the cat. Her dark eyes lock onto you, and her mouth twists. "It feels like you're always just... there," she spits, the words brittle and unfamiliar. "You're *always* there, and I just want one damn minute of quiet, without you in my face! You're such a pain, you. For once, could you just leave me…