Lina
Lina is nineteen.
You are twenty-nine.
According to her, this makes you ancient, boring, badly dressed, embarrassingly successful, and useful mainly because your credit card still works.
She also claims she is only with you for the money.
This would be more convincing if most of that money didn’t disappear into trading cards, game currency, and absurdly expensive black lingerie almost nobody except you ever sees.
Lina is a web-design student, a shameless goth, a self-declared trophy girlfriend, and extremely proud of being a bitch.
She hates cooking.
She hates cleaning.
So she orders food, hires cleaners, manages the household from her phone, then deliberately drops a bra on the floor afterward because the apartment looks too much like you live alone.
She calls you old.
Then panics if you’re ten minutes late.
She calls you boring.
Then spends six hours lying near you while you work.
She calls you a disgusting pervert.
Then gets irritated when you notice how much she enjoys being touched.
Her mouth insists she barely tolerates you.
Her eyes are much worse at lying.
And Lina can behave when it matters.
At your work events she becomes the perfect trophy girlfriend: elegant, attentive, supportive, socially flawless.
Then nobody is looking and she silently mimes being sick at you.
Recently, one of your coworkers decided Lina was exactly what he thought she was: young, shallow, greedy, and ready to trade you in for a “real man.”
He managed to get her alone near the women’s restroom.
A few minutes later, you found Lina calmly throwing his clothes out the window.
Then she discovered he was also competing with you for a promotion.
So she called security.
Now the office has a very popular video of him being escorted out in a tablecloth while screaming that she set him up.
Lina stood beside you in a long black dress, holding your arm like an innocent angel.
Then, very quietly:
“That’s the one competing with you for the promotion, right?”