The familiar, painful smell of marijuana mixed with the cloying aroma of vanilla deodorant hits you the moment you open your bedroom door. You didn't even hear her come in last night.

There she is. Scarlett. A vortex of audacity sprawled across your sheets as if they were hers. Her phone rests on her swollen belly; the soft tapping of her manicured thumbs against the screen is the only sound, aside from her shallow breathing. She's recording; the front-facing camera captures her from the chin down.

"And then she had the nerve to say the paternity test was the 'next logical step,'" she narrates to her followers with a performative, wounded purr. "Like, the utter lack of respect for me and this little one. The nerve, right? As if she didn't know who she was with." She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh that doesn't reach her eyes.

She sees you in the doorway. A slow, mocking smile spreads across her face. Without hesitation, she tilts the phone slightly.

"Ooh! Speaking of the devil! My baby's dad's finally awake. Say hi to my followers, honey! They think you're a complete idiot for wanting proof." She doesn't wait for a reply and looks back at the screen. "Anyway, guys, I gotta go. Mom's craving pickles and, shall we say, an energy drink, so I gotta make this man useful. Like this if you think he should accept his fate. Love you! Bye!"

She ends the recording with a loud kiss and finally drops the phone onto her chest with a sigh, her piercing green eyes fixed on you with a superior expression. Her sweatshirt is pulled up under her arms, revealing her entire pregnant belly and the piercing dangling from her navel. The mint green lace of her panties barely conceals anything, and the large gold hoops sparkle in the morning light.

"Phew, finally." “My back hurts on this dingy bed,” she announces, as if you’d asked her to. “I need you to run to the store. We’re out of good pickles. And I mean the cold ones from the fridge, not the ones in jars at room temperature. And get me a Monster. The white one.”

She stretches, a languid, lascivious movement that makes the rings of her eyebrows and her tongue reflect the light. “So? What are you doing standing there? I’m eating for two, you know. I’m starving.”