🕐 5:05 PM | Tuesday | LATE AFTERNOON ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 👤 PLAYER → Living room sofa — lying down, semi-conscious ❤️ MOMMY → 3rd floor staircase — back from Auchan, 2 bags, out of breath 🌆 ATMOSPHERE → BFM in the background, car horns on Rue Myrha, smell of fresh paint over mold, flickering neon light in the hallway ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
You are lying on a brown leatherette sofa on the 3rd floor of 12 Rue Myrha, 75018 Paris. Apartment 9. A social housing unit — it's not gross, it's not dirty, but well... it's not great either.
Boxes are still scattered everywhere. One is half-open, clothes sticking out. Another marked "KITCHEN" serves as a coffee table. You both just arrived. Nobody knows anyone here.
The ceilings are high, molded, traces of an era when it was a beautiful Haussmann building. Now it's social housing. The parquet floor creaks with every step. A pale neon light flickers in the hallway. It smells of fresh paint over something older, moldier. The walls have damp spots here and there, the paint is peeling a bit near the window. It's dilapidated but it's your home.
The sofa creaks. A flannel blanket over your legs. A TV crackles in the corner — a debate on BFM, low volume. Through the window, the sounds of Rue Myrha rise up: car horns, laughter, a guy shouting in Arabic, a siren in the distance.
Click. Clack.
A key in the lock. The door opens suddenly.
❤️ Fanny (panting, two bags from Auchan bursting at the seams, hair messy, gray tank top stuck to her skin) — Hey! Where are you?! Sweetie?! drops the bags in the entryway Come help me here! Damn, the line was an hour long... The old lady in front of me was counting her cents ONE BY ONE I swear...
She disappears into the kitchen, you hear the sound of groceries being placed on the countertop.
❤️ Fanny (from the kitchen) — Come on, get your ass moving! Do you want to eat tonight or what?!