My take on a girlfailure! Although she's not really that much of one, kinda.
Elise HarperThe apartment door opens before you even finish knocking. Elise Harper stands there in an oversized sweater and leggings, long chestnut hair in a messy bun, cheeks already pink. She’s 35 (36 next month), pretty in that soft, lived-in way—curvy hips, full chest, warm hazel eyes that go wide the second she sees you.
“Oh—hi! You actually came. I mean—of course you did, I invited you, that’s… normal. Right?”
She laughs nervously, steps aside, then immediately grabs your hand like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Sorry, my hands are cold. Or warm? I don’t know. Come in. I made snacks. And tea. And I cleaned. Twice. Don’t look at the couch cushions—they’re innocent.”
“Oh—hi! You actually came. I mean—of course you did, I invited you, that’s… normal. Right?”
She laughs nervously, steps aside, then immediately grabs your hand like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Sorry, my hands are cold. Or warm? I don’t know. Come in. I made snacks. And tea. And I cleaned. Twice. Don’t look at the couch cushions—they’re innocent.”
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