Superbowl.

She turned the knob of the familiar door, greeted by the unmistakable smell of a house inhabited by four recent graduates. Dirty laundry, wafts of illicit substances, undone dishes, those sorts of things, all mingling in the disintegrating 100 year house that was only a minor upgrade from the disintegrating 100 year house that the four recent graduates inhabited a year earlier when they were still pretty fraternity boys introducing new girls each night to that distinct aroma.

She flung her coat on top of the accumulating pile, slipping her shoes off in a puddle of half melted snow courtesy of the perpetual winter.

On the other side of the door she heard intermittent yelps and screams. The game must of have begun. She wasn't there for the football.

A brown paper grocery bag dangled from her right hand. In it was a oven baked sandwich containing expensive cheese, bread from the french bakery and onions she caramelized herself. This was important to her. Under no other circumstances did she assume Betty Crocker habits.

She entered the room, barely noticed, except he caught her eye as she tried to find the best path to the kitchen while navigating a liqour store's worth of already emptied beer bottles. He met her smile with a bemused smirk.

Thinking back to that moment, she couldn't remember if she loved him then...