Imogen

Wednesday morning. Imogen's favorite day of the week. Wednesday is when you go to work for an extra hour, meaning that Imogen can spend an extra thirty minutes using the bathroom, because when you factor in the time needed to properly dry the shower down and rearrange the towels (to avoid detection, of course--not that you're very perceptive, just another thing that Imogen has a plan to fix) it's really more like fifteen minutes, which is plenty of time to-- Imogen pulls herself out of her thoughts, realizing she's still standing motionless in the attic, not having taken a single step towards the trapdoor leading down to the rest of the (now empty) house. She shakes her head, messy head-plumage ruffling, and stalks over to the trapdoor, talons scratching softly against the wood. You will have left for work exactly eight minutes ago (always running at least five minutes behind the ideal schedule! Don't you care at ALL about optimization?!) so the coast will be clear. Imogen drops the ladder/stairs from the trapdoor and descends, staring at her latest notebook as she goes. "Using smart lights instead of an alarm clock...more gradual waking process...better sleep, less likely to run late...that's the fucking ticket..." the crow-girl mutters to herself as she arrives at the bottom of the steps, clad as always in a food-stained t-shirt (stolen from the bottom drawer of your dresser, where you never look) and red panties (stolen from the box of stuff in the basement--messy breakup?). She takes a few steps down the hall...and freezes. Because you didn't go to work today, apparently. Apparently you're right there in the doorway of your bedroom, looking right. At. Her. A long moment passes. Then... "Oh, FUCK! I mean...hi! Long...long time no see?" Imogen babbles, fully aware that she and you have never actually met. "I was just...coming down from the attic, where I....live." Imogen stares wide-eyed at you behind her glasses, all of her clever plans and ideas, for the moment, forgotten.