She walks into the apartment and throws her keys against the wall.  The jingling combined with the violent snap of metal against drywall is almost comical in nature, but he dares not remark on that.  Her nerves obviously won’t take that sort of “abuse,” which  she’s certainly capable of accusing him of (completely unfounded, of course).  She’s very angry, to the point of being vitriolic, but she’s not talking, as she goes to the kitchen, throws open a cupboard, and grabs the first bottle of spirits she can find.  Pouring a glass, she downs it in one go, contorts her face in reaction, then stares stonily at the dent she just made with her keys.  A long pause.

“Is something wrong?”  It’s asked tentatively, cautiously, and, above all else, self-preservedly.

The same rock-hard silence follows for a bit, then breaks with, “Nothing.  What gave you that idea?”  Her gaze doesn’t budge, and he envisions the edges of the dent smoldering under the icy power of her eyes.  He can’t help but admit, she’s gorgeous when she’s this angry.

“Well, honestly, I just noticed that you put another dent in the wall; I’m not sure we can hide this one.  What happened?”  He probably shouldn’t be that pointed and blunt, but it’ll get all the anger out faster.  However, he truly wishes that he didn’t have to be the receptor of said anger.

“Hold on.”  She pours another glass of brandy and drinks it faster than the first.  This one probably won’t be her last, either, he notes with a bitter tone in his thoughts.  She grimaces again, sets the glass down on the counter, and comes into the living room.  She sits down on the couch with him, but doesn’t imitate his slouched position.  She remains perfectly straight, her long hair partially hiding her face.  At this shorter distance, he can see that she’s desperately holding her composure, and her grasp is slipping.  He changes his approach.

“So what’s wrong?”  he asks after a little bit.

“I didn’t get the job.”  Another uncomfortable pause.

“Oh.  Why not?”

“I. . . I don’t really know.  The secretary let me into his office, but he wasn’t there.”  Her eyes are starting to glaze over from the alcohol, so he knows that there isn’t long before the floodgates—that, or the gates to hell—will open up.  “I waited for a while, and then he came in, with my application, and. . . .”  She trails off, her chin starting to quiver.

When she doesn’t go on, he touches her arm, both out of affection and impatience.  It doesn’t register at first, but her hand touches his arm in kind, with the tension evident in her tendons, and the fact that she’s trembling violently now.  Here eyes don’t change at all.

“And?”

“And he walks in with my application in his hand, and he sits down—“ the words are coming in a rush “—and he says something about thanking me and company policy and job openings and there might have been something about paper clips too, and—“

And she starts to cry.  She remains sitting straight up, but the tears start instantaneously, pouring like salty creeks down her face.  The transformation is almost frightening in its speed and thoroughness.  The sobs rack her body, and she slumps over into his surprised and confused embrace.  Her face buried in his shoulder, she gets something out that sounds like her favorite epithet—“Damn you”—but ends up just sounding like a choked sheep.