Poison Oak

Her apartment is messy, books strewn everywhere and half-filled coffee cups collecting dust in cloudy windowpanes. The electricity has been shut off, she says, throwing herself carelessly down onto an old armchair, with one arm ripped open and stuffing spilling out onto the scuffed, fake wooden tile. A bony finger sticks out into the air, crafting lazy circles across the stuffy air, beckoning me to sit anywhere, anyplace. I find myself walking towards her, heart in my throat, pulse pounding into my ears. I think I see a mouse. She says it isn't much, but somehow I feel like I could come to call it home.