The couch calls Rachel’s name the moment she walks through her apartment door. It takes her all of five minutes to shuck off the clothes she has been wearing all day and replace them with the soft, cotton comfort of yoga pants and a ribbed tank and warm up last night’s leftover Thai take-out before plopping herself down and sinking into plush cushions, remote at the ready. When her laziness is interrupted by a knock on her door an hour or so later, Rachel’s confused. She’s not expecting anyone, but double-checks her phone for any missed texts or calls and pulls up her calendar as her slippered feet scuffle across hardwood. Up on her tip-toes she sees the fish-eyed distortion of Kurt and when she finally cracks the door open, confusion written on her features, it only takes a simple glance down to the bundle in his arms – wine and ice cream – for her puzzlement to melt away to understanding.
There’s half eaten pints melting on her coffee table but the wine’s completely drained. Kurt’s in no shape to leave and Rachel attempts to drape a throw over him, his body curled in a ball, knees to his chest, but her aim’s a bit off and the blanket pools mostly on the floor. Good enough.
Her world spins a bit as she walks toward the stairs and Rachel has to really concentrate on the placement of her feet and ends up chucking her slippers off halfway up because they’re just impairing her impairment. Rachel stumbles into her unmade bed and half pulls the covers over her body before she realizes she hasn’t brushed her teeth or washed her face, but no. The energy’s not there to do anything but fumble around for her phone, which she had tucked inside her bra at some point during the evening, and considers calling Noah to come and bring her a toothbrush. But her blurry vision falls to another name first and without a second thought, her thumb taps the number and she brings the phone to her ear, waiting for the call to connect.