She walks in with this look of irritation. It seems blandless to the outsider, but I know what it means. She struggles with a chair as she pushes it to the door. I do not offer to help. I stand up. I take my bag and go upstairs. She sits on the couch, listening perhaps randomly to the drone of Backstreet Boys. She barely looks at me. I barely look at her, as I make my way to my room.