The Performance - College Apartment

The lighting is just a little bit weird—the cheap fluorescent gleams off the white tile floors and the white walls. The couch has blankets strewn across it, and the coffee table is riddled with icy glasses, a closed folder, a plastic pencil case, a phone, a sweating green bottle of San Pellegrino, a laptop, an empty bowl with the remains of Kevin’s dessert—strawberries and yogurt (which just looked like red chunks submerged in a strandy goo), a mostly-filled bowl of quinoa (which Mia hasn’t finished because she left to meander around her room, her shoulder to her ear, phone precariously perched, talking to her mom, switching her language from Amharic to English); Natalia washes dishes in the background, a slight clattering of hard plastic amidst the running water.

Natalia and Mia return to the couch. “I swear every time you clear your throat, it’s like someone starting up a lawn-mower,” Mia says to Natalia. She’s being honest, but not to hurt Natalia’s feelings. They gab.

Natalia picks up the folder and plastic pencil case—pulling out an assortment of colored pens, and various reading material.

Mia alternates between sifting through her bowl of quinoa with a fork, and her taking long sips from her bottle of San Pellegrino.

Kevin retreated to his room at some point; the light in his room is on and warmer than the kitchen/living room lights; in the distance he can be heard flipping papers at his desk. He silently closes his door; he’s still wearing his blue corduroy cap even though it’s almost midnight.

Natalia puts a pen in her mouth and stares pensively at her reading material.

“Does anyone need to like, pee or anything?” Mia asks, heading to the bathroom—it’s the usual common courtesy question before one of the roommates takes a shower—there’s only one small bathroom in this 1,200 square foot Outer Sunset apartment. No one has to pee--a typical night.