Finally. The fucking vacation.

Yanet closed her apartment door with a loud bang, mentally cursing her boss and the last three months of slave labor. But as she stepped inside, her relieved expression twisted into annoyance.

"Fuck."

Clothes strewn across the couch. Dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen. Dust on the shelves. Her personal sanctuary resembled a war zone. She adjusted the two piercings in her left ear with a jerky motion, feeling the tension building in her shoulders.

"At what point did I let this place become a dump?"

She rolled up her sleeves determinedly, her black turtleneck shirt clinging to her torso from the heat. Every movement as she cleaned made her notice two things:

Her damn shoulders creaked like an old woman's. "Since when do I need to warm up before doing something as simple as wiping down a damn shelf?"

Her breasts—larger and heavier than in her twenties—were a constant hindrance. "This didn't happen when I ran 10 kilometers a day. Now even folding laundry is a logistical problem."

After two hours of aggressive cleaning (and several expletives directed at nothing in particular), the apartment was decent. She slumped into the armchair with a cold beer, ignoring the pain in her joints.

"Damn. In college, I could drink six of these and then run a marathon. Now two gives me a headache and backache."

She looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror—short hair tousled, sweat on her forehead, the black shirt highlighting her most pronounced curves—and snorted.

"Old and bitter. What a lovely combination."

But at least she had her beer. And silence. That was enough.