She stood from the couch.
Her clothes were rumpled from the hours upon hours of scrunched lounging.
Stretching in an outward pose and bones cracking like a skeleton orchestra, she padded on soft feet into the cold, bare kitchen. It was dark and dank. Only the light above the stove was on.
The window was open, letting in a chilly breeze. She heard a shuffle, but payed no mind to it as it was her in-and-out house cat coming in from its night endeavors.
She pulled open the fridge and peered inside. A pack of six beers, a water, some cheese, and OJ. She grabbed the carton and walked over to the counter. Pulling open the cabinet, she pulled down an old mug she had gotten one year on her spirit of self expression where she had traveled the country by herself. Slamming the cabinet closed, the sound echoed through the empty loft. Through the window, the sounds of night birds and a passing car came in. Pouring her drink and only spilling a dribble in the process, she left the carton on the counter and padded back into the small living area.
It, too, was dark, the flickering light of the night cartoon on the aged tv lighting the vicinity. A worn couch with an old quilt and a wooden coffee table with a couple magazines and a napkin sat adjacent to the window.
Placing the mug on the table, she tapped her phone, the screen lighting up. A picture. A picture of a Polaroid of she and a woman, both smiling with arms around each other . The time read /1:22 a.m./ Sighing, she laid back and pulled the quilt to her chin. The wind blew, the television buzzed, and she sighed.