Arthur’s living room had its way of making her feel comfortable, and that was despite the clutter that he insisted on keeping around. From squashed throw pillows, to dried up coffee stains, nothing ever seemed to have a damn place of its own, and perhaps that is precisely what made her feel as though she fit in. That—and how it was quite common for random junk she thought she’d lost to eventually pop out from somewhere between the cushions of his sofa, like some man-cave version of Pandora’s box. He watched her perched at one end of it, legs tucked tight, jittery from too much coffee and definitely not enough sleep.

“You’ve clearly had a lot going on lately, Dee. If you keep going on like this you’re gonna go all psychotic.”

She rolls her eyes back at him and does not respond.

“Why don’t we watch a movie or something? It will help you wind down, maybe even help you fall asleep. You’ll rest, and by tomorrow you’ll be like a brand new baby Donna. What do you say, does that sound good? I’ll get the TV on.” 

“NO!” she throws a hand out to single him to a halt. It works, and he stops. “Not the TV—don’t do the TV, Art. I can’t watch TV.”

“Why don’t you want to watch TV?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to watch TV,” she shuffles in her seat as she starts to explain herself. ”It’s that I can’t. I literally can’t. If I do, I honestly feel like my head is going to explode. KA-BOOM! All over the place,” she gestures, wiggling her fingers at the air in front of her.

He shakes his head. 

“You can’t do that to me, Arthur.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not. Look—”, she straightens herself. ”You have to see it from my perspective. Imagine this: I walk in and you are watching a boring boy movie (I have nothing against the boring part). Then, I take a seat next to you and follow the story along. Everything is going just fine until—BAM! Lights start flashing, color saturation goes from 90s melancholic jazzy vibe to psychedelic tripping goats—”. 

Arthur widens his eyes in an attempt to keep up with her trainwreck of thoughts but his brain stutters, and she goes on.

“People start dancing, everything’s LOUD, shit gets thrown: in, out, around, and everywhere while—”

“Oh yeah, I think I know exactly where you’re going with this…”

“WHAT’S SWEETER THAN NECTAR? THE BEST IN THE SECTOR! THAT’S RIGHT, KIDS! IT’S—KONFECTACORP!”, and throws her arms up into the air while finishing the jingle.

He puffs out a laugh to her. “Yuup…” 

““Uuuuuugh—I’d die, Arthur. DIE. Don’t do that to me.” Donna returns a groan and drags her hands over her face, pulling the skin down from under her eyes with them. 

“And that was supposed to be you not exaggerating, Don?”

On the couch, her body was stiff—butt firmly planted into the cushions, and arms wrapped around her legs in a fetal position. Her eyelids peeled all the way back, so far that the entirety of her eyeballs were visible, to the point you’d think she’d either had a sudden onset of Grave’s disease or entered the Tom and Jerry universe. She kept on nodding to him.

“You’re going nuts, Donna.” Arthur shakes his head while still looking around for the TV remote.

“I’m going sugarplums, Art! I think even nuts are in a healthier state of being at the moment than I am.”

She twists herself and sinks her back into the couch, eyes glazed and body nesting inside the worn out black leather while watching him pace around the room.

“Fine, no TV. But I think you may need to take a break from work. You know, be away for a while, blow off some steam. I think it may do you good.”

“I think I may be allergic to ads,” she says and wiggles her back a bit further into the seat. 

Then: A muffled click. 

“Donna don’t be silly, you’re not allergic to—”

♪ WHAT’S SWEETER THAN NECTAR? THE BEST IN THE SECTOR! THAT’S RIGHT, KIDS! IT’S—KONFECTACORP! ♪

KA-BOOM!