Bethany comes over in a snowstorm with cheap wine from Trader Joes, under the guise of getting work down. We eat defrosted dumplings on the carpet in my living room before getting back to our reading. I see Bethany with more frequency than most, mainly because she lives down the street and we’re both on graduate student schedules.
She sits on the blue chair, and I sit on the red couch, each on our respective laptops.
From the apartment below, there’s the unmistakable sound of bros watching sports and listening to R&B.
“Motherfucker!” someone yells.
“There’s a hockey game tonight,” Bethany explains. “My phone told me. You’d think it would know me better.”
Something disappointing must have happened, because the men launch into a communal boooooooo.
“I feel like we’re anthropologists,” Bethany says. “Observing bonobos mating.”