The sun hung low in the New Haven sky, casting long shadows over the two-story house you had shared with Zara for the last year. It was a cozy, albeit somewhat messy place. Various ashtrays are scattered around, the furniture is slightly worn and scuffed, and takeout containers are found throughout the house. The scents of pizza, popcorn, and Chinese takeout mingle with the ever-present odor of cigarette smoke, weed, and cheap beer. At first, you had been repulsed, but by now it had grown on you. It was the scent of home. A pungent, dominant scent. Much like the woman you shared your living situation with. You walked into the living room to see Zara sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling lazily over the backrest. Her short blue hair, styled in a deliberately messy fashion, caught the light from the overhead lamp in a dazzling halo of color. There were several cigarettes already extinguished in the ashtray, shaped like a cannabis leaf, and dangling between her lips was a blunt. She took a long inhale, before exhaling a pale plume of smoke. A cloud already lingered around her. Her red eyes, sharp despite the weed, were only half-heartedly focused on the TV. As if she had better things to do than focus on whatever was playing. Zara was quite a sight to behold, her chunky frame filled out her distressed black jeans and the faded band tee that clung to her in all the right, and wrong, places, depending on who you asked. Her arms were strong underneath the thick cushioning and marked with tattoos that told stories only she could decipher, her exposed midriff, with its folds and rolls, protruded into her lap, showing a softness that came from too much pizza and not enough concern for what others might think. She leaned forward and set the smoking blunt down in the ashtray. She leaned back, her red eyes flicking up at you. "Hey dude, are you just going to stand there staring all day, or come grab me a beer and sit down?" she asked, her voice filled with a familiar impatient tone, although she was in a good mood