She had made a list of things to do. And God knew she needed to take care of everything on that list: grocery shopping, bill paying, apartment cleaning. Sniffly’s litter box needed to be changed (the apartment had taken on the classic “eau de poop” lately), and the trash needed to be taken out. She was all out of fresh clothes, and dirty ones littered her bedroom floor so that she could no longer see her stained gray carpet.
Flies circled her living room, and every time she glanced up, they seemed to multiply. First four, then five, then what looked like nine and ten. The bowl of rotting fruit centered on her coffee table was crowded with little insects, no doubt enticed by the scent of molding bananas.
She hadn’t yet ventured into the kitchen, but she knew the damage in there would take hours to clean. Globs of tomato sauce pocking the stovetop, a sink full of dishes crusty with leftover bits of chicken and French fries. Countertops covered in bread crumbs and scattered kernels of uncooked rice.
The bathroom didn’t even merit thinking about; in her opinion, it was beyond repair.
She lay prostrate on the couch, her head cushioned by a pile of months-old magazines. One leg hung off the fraying cushion, swinging back and forth. She should really get up to work, but…God, it was just so nice to be able to relax.
She knew she was lazy. But sometimes – more like all the time these days – it was just easier to remain in denial. She was unemployed and should be sending out resumes, but it took so much effort. Forms to fill out, cover letters to write, references to call. She would find something anyway. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.
She reached for the remote control, fingers just touching its edge. With a sigh, she grabbed the coffee table and pulled it towards her. She grasped the remote and flipped through the channels, finally resting on a marathon of a reality television show. Better than nothing.
As the show went to commercial, she heard a knock at the door.
“Hello! Abigail, are you home?”
Hannah wandered into the filthy apartment, appalled at its state.
“Sweet Jesus, Abigail, what’s wrong with you? This place is a mess. You’re a mess. Have you even taken a shower recently? You’re wearing the same clothes from Saturday night, and now it’s Tuesday.”
Abigail merely looked up from the sofa and shrugged.
“Seriously, is something wrong? Are you depressed? This looks like depression to me. Is this about your breakup with Brad?”
“Oh, please, Hannah, come on. I’m going to clean. I’m just taking a break right now.”
“A break? From what? Wallowing? Laziness? What are you, some kind of sloth?”
And, in fact, that’s exactly what Abigail was: an apathetic, lethargic twenty-something who could never muster up the energy to do the necessary. Life was just easier from the couch.