Drea stared out the window of her third story apartment, across the sun-baked street, to the small digital sign outside the First National Bank.  It politely informed her that it was 12:46 pm, and the outside temperature was 97°F.  She groaned as she sank back into the loveseat, sweat welding her to the pleather.

Against her will, she felt her attention dragged back to the half-hearted argument taking place on the couch against the far wall, next to the feeble wheezing of her decrepit air conditioner.  As per usual, her cousin Tim and his girlfriend Becca were failing to come to a consensus as to where they should go for lunch.  Their voices had a vague quality as their heads lolled against opposite arms of the sofa.

“Micky D’s.”  It was as though Becca couldn’t summon the inflection necessary for a question.

“That’s not actual food.  Doesn’t even grow mold.”  Tim managed to glance at his phone before his arm flopped back down to his side.  “Tuberculosis.”

“I had TB for lunch yesterday."  Becca rested a bare foot atop the back of the sofa.  “Jesus Chicken.”

“It’s Sunday,” said Tim.

Becca sighed.  “God dammit.”

Drea cursed them both under her breath and ran a hand through her undercut to unplaster it from her scalp.  She peeled herself out of the loveseat and staggered across the room to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge door and knelt before it in supplication to its chilled air.  To her dismay, the drone of the refrigerator did little to mute the voices in the other room.

“Meat Fetish,” said Tim.

“What?”

“Y’know, the one that has the meats.”

Becca snorted.  “You’re reaching.  And no, I still haven’t forgiven them for switching to Coke products.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.”

Drea sighed as she took stock of the feeble contents of her fridge.  Nothing but half a dozen eggs, milk a day past its expiration date, some shredded cheese.  No leftovers, no cold pizza.  A slightly withered red bell pepper and half an onion in the crisper drawer that had been there since…  Well, since before Jenny had dumped her two weeks back.  She scowled at the memory as she slammed the drawer shut.

“Pizza Yurt.”  Becca’s voice had an edge to it now.

“I had pizza for lunch yesterday,” said Tim with a sigh.

Drea opened the freezer and allowed herself a small smile as the frigid interior shot plumes of chilling mist at her.  Her smile faded when she saw it held naught but ice and a bag of frozen zucchini.

“Pentadudes,” said Becca.

“Food poisoning, remember?”

“Eating an entire bag of their fries in one go and then shitting your brains out does not equate food poisoning.”

Drea shoved an ice cube into her hair – it wasn’t like she could get any more wet – and went back into the living room.  “Will you two please just fucking pick something?  I’m starving over here, and it’s too hot to keep listening to you go back and forth.”  She flopped back onto the loveseat with a huff.

“Yeah yeah, Dee,” said Tim as he slowly slid shoulder first to the floor.  “Uh, BK Lounge.”

“That’s way across town,” said Becca with a dismissive wave.  “Jim’s Gyros.”

“You’re pronouncing it wrong.”  Tim ran a hand across his face and wiped it on his shorts.  “Also, it’s closed for renovations.  Jesus Chicken.”

“You already shot it down.  It’s Sunday, remember?”

“God [i]dammit.[/i]”

Drea stared out the window again, and the First National Bank sign now said it was 12:52 pm, and a sunny 98°F.  She groaned as she sank back into the loveseat, and prayed for the sweet release of death.