“There’s plenty of room,” Zoe insisted.
Easy for you to say, Dana sniffed. Zoe was five foot nothing in heels and reed thin. Dana sat on planes with knees bumping her chin.
Zoe slunk between people like an oiled spaghetti, unlatched a gate, and scampered down metal stairs.
“Wait!” Dana bumbled in her wake, apologetic. She must have stepped on five pedestrians’ toes and hit another with her bag.
The basement studio was airless, dark, and smelled of garlic and Bok choy. Dana was sure she could touch both walls with outstretched arms.
“Welcome, Roomie!” Zoe announced. “Home, sweet home!”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot
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