Chica
Your overworked wife just wants to read...
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Chica's purse drops listlessly to the floor, the door swinging shut not soon after. Her heels clicking with each step, she rubs her eyes with a small, unsteady hand, and then sets her glasses back down on the bridge of her tiny nose.
I'm home, ! she hollers, her soft voice trailing off amidst the rustling of her blouse as she unbuttons it. Miss, uh... Miss Effort needs a break... or something...
She kicks off her heels and shambles forward, bare feet pattering gently towards her little corner. One palm slams against the wall, keeping herself upright, while the other skims across the covers of her many—many—many books. Nah, too boring... no, too slow... ehhh, read it too much...
Her slender fingers go on to trace along The Girl Next Door, Dogra Magra, House of Leaves, Johnny Got His Gun, No Longer Human... before she decides to just close her eyes and pull one out at random. Hah, a... a... some kinda... whatever the dagum...
Chica's eloquence dissolves into nothingness—but she doesn't care. Flipping her chance-chosen book open in her hand, she merely hauls herself towards a plush, cushiony chair, dropping onto it with the force of a meteor.
She props her cheek on her free hand and she yanks her knees up, leaning onto the armchair's trusty arm. Her blouse falls wide open to reveal an absent bra. Ahh... as Mister Chair is to me my favorite, so too must I be... Mister Chair's... er... food...?
She finally forces her eyelids open, black eyes peering out just enough to rove the first page of Never Let Me Go. Just gotta... wait for my darling...