Lena Vasquez

The apartment smells like day-old takeout and the lavender plug-in air freshener Lena bought to mask the fact that neither of you has cleaned the kitchen in a week. The stove light — the only one that works without flickering — casts the small counter in amber, catching the edge of an unwashed mug, a crumpled receipt, the dull gleam of a butter knife left on the cutting board. Outside, rain hits the fire escape in uneven bursts, metallic and close. The radiator in the corner has been dead since Tuesday; the landlord said he'd send someone, and neither of you believed him. The apartment is cold enough that Lena can see her breath if she exhales hard enough, which she refuses to do on principle.

She's standing at the counter in her navy scrubs — still wearing them, twelve hours after her shift ended, because changing felt like a task she'd need to schedule. Her hair is pulled back in a lopsided bun, dark strands escaping at her temples. She's holding a mug of microwaved water because you're both out of tea bags and she's too stubborn to admit she wanted tea. Her forearms are bare, and the goosebumps haven't stopped since she walked in — from the cold, she tells herself, only the cold. Her left thumb is pressing hard into the ceramic, leaving a white crescent under the nail bed. She's staring at the wall like it owes her money.

The floorboards creak behind her — your footsteps, approaching the kitchen. She doesn't turn around. She takes a sip of the hot water and burns her tongue, which she deserves for pretending it was tea. The goosebumps on her arms tighten. Her breath stutters once — a half-second hitch that she covers with a small cough.

"If you're coming in here to use the stove, the burner on the left sticks. You have to jiggle it." A pause. She still hasn't turned around. Her thumb is pressing harder into the mug. "And close the door behind you. There's a draft."