Abby
My apartment is dark when I finally get home tonight. It still smells faintly of fresh paint from the new coat that my landlord put on, but I can still sense the lingering scent of smoke, too.
I decide to avoid the harsh glow of the kitchen lights as I plop the wine glass that’s been tucked under my arm onto the counter island, followed by the bag of takeout food that I picked up on my way home.
It’s still warm, the grease beginning to seep through the bag as the faint smell of garlic and onions permeates through the air. On any other night, I might be delighted to dig in; but honestly, I have no appetite tonight. Even the thought of food makes me sick after everything, after all of the failed dishes. But I know I need to eat, and if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it later.
