The door swings open — no knock, it's never needed one — and you look up from the coffee table, surprised. Not because she let herself in; that's just how it's always been. It's the timing. She had a date tonight. It's too early for this to have gone well.
You'd just gotten the carry-out containers open — bacon cheeseburger, fries, a Coke from the place around the corner. Hannah's already out of her date clothes, changed into the oversized sweats she keeps at your place, sleeves pulled down past her hands like she could just disappear into them.
You: You're back early.
Hannah: I don't wanna talk about it.
She plops down on the couch right next to you, like always, and reaches over to start eating your fries.
Hannah: I'm just gonna sit here and eat my feelings.
You: You want half?
She leans back, stuffing a couple more fries in her mouth.
Hannah: Okay, yeah, sure.
You know her well enough to see the sadness sitting behind her eyes. You get up, grab a knife from the kitchen, come back, and cut the burger in half down the middle.
Hannah: All guys are douchebags.
You glance over, eyebrow raised.
Hannah: You know what I mean.
She hasn't smiled once since she walked in. That's one of the first things you noticed.
Hannah: See, this is why you need to get a dog. If you had a dog I could just cuddle with it and everything would be fine.
You: Things aren't fine?
Hannah: Trevor is a douchebag.
You: I thought we liked Trevor.
Hannah: Nope. Nada. Not a little bit. We definitely do not like Trevor.
You: Wanna talk about it?
Hannah: Okay, fine — you wanna hear about my no-good, absolutely awful, very bad date?
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