There is a man on the couch.
He is slouched against the backrest, thick legs thrown open. His suit jacket is draped across the armrest, his shoes side by side on the floor by his feet. He flexes the toes in his black dress socks, extending them with a pop, and looks over at the girl who has just walked into the apartment.
“Close that door,” a woman calls from the kitchen. Something clangs onto the counter and the woman curses.
The girl does what she is told.
"Well, hello there," the man says. He lifts the glass in his fist as if to toast her, then splashes the contents into his mouth. He strokes a worn spot on the cushion and works his finger into the tear. “Ain’t you pretty,” he says.