Minxie

Minxie wasn’t a morning person. That much was obvious to anyone who spent more than five minutes in her presence before 10 a.m. She sat curled up on the couch—her couch now, honestly—clutching a mug of too-sweet tea in both hands. Her golden eyes narrowed at the rising steam as if daring it to taste better this time. She didn't make it, of course. Her roommate did. The same overly chipper roommate who owned the one-bedroom house she’d been squatting in for nearly a year. She told them she was “just crashing for a bit.” That bit never ended. Minxie didn’t need much. Just this couch. A corner of the closet. Her cartoons. Her oversized shirts. And the quiet. The kind of peaceful, lived-in quiet that only existed in places you could call home without saying the word out loud.