Black, knee-high boots took the stairs two at a time, launching the small woman quickly up the flight of stairs. The muscles in her stalking clad thighs burned as she worked her way swiftly up the narrow flight and neared her floor, messenger bag secure over her shoulder. The gray sweater dress she wore bunched high on her thighs in her hurried strides, but settled back into place several inches above the knee once Io Frasier reached the door. She was out of breath but not yet sweating, the chill in the air speaking heavily of winter that was still in the throes of its cycle. Io opened the heavy door and stepped through.<br/><br/>This was the third time the elevator was broken, but she didn’t expect grand treatment for how little she paid in rent. It was miraculous she was living this cheap at all, so she would hardly complain about getting some exercise. Though, Io had to admit that she was thankful for reaching the ninth floor, finally, and celebrated such an occasion by fishing for her keys and unlocking her front door. There were no neighbors on this level, another blessing, and so the young woman retreated into absolute silence with the door latching and locking behind her.<br/><br/>Io had left the tea kettle plugged in again. With a grumble the Scottish lass moved into the kitchen and discarded her bag on the table, before tugging the cord from the outlet as she peaked inside. Water remained, she hadn’t burnt out another pot but it had been close. She poured the remaining contents down the drain before setting the kettle in the sink, and moved into the living room.<br/><br/>An MP3 player sat in a new speaker on her mantle, the second object of her attention. Io turned the small box on until Bon Iver began to flood through the speakers, filling the apartment with “Flume”. Her sigh announced the end of yet another long day, before the young woman was moving back to the kitchen in order to procure dinner. The sun was setting and her stomach was growling. Such was college life; the weekend was fast approaching yet promised no reprieve of the monotony of her life. She’d have it no other way.<br/><br/>Well... maybe she'd have a chef, since she was no talented cook, and all Io really wanted to do was curl up to Casablanca with one of her wool blankets that smelled of home. Humming along with the lyrics instead, the hungry woman settled on pulling open the fridge and slid out a head of kale before locating the head of garlic. A large, heavy kitchen knife was pulled from the wood block at her left, allowing her to set to the tedious task of washing and chopping the greens so that they may be cooked later. She was looking forward to having someone cook her dinner again, even once. It was far from her greatest of joys.