Gillian did not cry out in pain. Instead she let out a bellow of garbled obscenities that sounded like the blathering of tongues. The basic translation could be summed up as, “people suck.”
Choice colorful metaphors aside, she was past the point of eloquent communication as coffee dripped from the tips of her toes, having travelled a circuitous route down her cleavage, along her torso, down both legs, and following gravity’s path to the earth.
She hadn’t moved. Frozen in place. Ironic, since the coffee must’ve been about 2,000 degrees. Surprising that it didn’t burn a hole through the floor straight down to the earth’s core.
The door jammer, a mid-thirties man of average height, average looks, and average intelligence took a few seconds to stare before letting out a small, awkward laugh. Not because the scene was especially funny, but because that’s what he did when he was nervous.
“Oops! My bad,” the man blurted.
The goofy smile on his face, the I just rolled out of bed hairdo, and the artfully distressed $300 jeans practically yodeled HIPSTER.
“Let me get that for you,” he said as he grabbed a handful of paper napkins and started blotting hopelessly at her sopping wet jacket.
Socially awkward AND overly helpful. What a combination.
Gillian brushed his hands away, the garbled cry dying out as the coffee cooled to room temperature, leaving her wet and burnt and altogether uncomfortable.
“Leave it,” she blurted, dropping her now empty coffee cup to the floor where it rolled to a stop at the man’s feet.
The black sharpied horrifyingly misspelled name pointed up at the ceiling mockingly.
“Woah, you shouldn’t litter like that,” the hipster said. “It’s not cool…” He glanced at the name written on the white paper cup. “Jelly Bean.”
Gillian stared at him. Was this dude for real?
He stuck out the hand not holding a wad of wet napkins and said, “I’m Arlo.”
Gillian looked from the extended hand to his stupid grin. “Good for you,” she said, shoving past him and out the door.
Gillian navigated the broken sidewalks and crowds of commuters as the hot, smoky air of Downtown dried out her clothes, fluid logged heels squishing disgustingly with every step she took. She didn’t have time to go home and change. There was an extra skirt and blouse in her locker at work. That’d have to do.
By the time she arrived at the blocky concrete cube almost completely devoid of windows that could only existentially be considered an office building, she had exactly fifteen minutes to spare. Good thing she always got to work early. She’d need those spare minutes today.
She squelched into the employee bathroom. Removing her shoes, she wadded up paper towels and stuffed them inside to soak up as much coffee as possible while she stripped out of her blazer and the now dry but crunchy and aromatic coffee tinted work blouse. That all-over stain was never coming out. With a sigh, she dropped the blouse into the trash can. Shimmying out of the dark pencil skirt, she folded it on the edge of the sink with her jacket and dug through her locker in her underwear.
The door opened and Gillian turned to see the hipster, Arlo, walk in. She stared at him in disbelief as he froze just inside the door to the unisex employee restroom.
“What…?” she asked, glancing around in confusion at the bizarre coincidence. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes widened in shock as she demanded, “Did you follow me?!”
“No!” He waved his hands in protest. “I work here! Well, I will work here, I mean,” he said. “Today is my first day.” He couldn’t help the awkward laugh from bubbling out.
Gillian narrowed her eyes and glared at him until the uncomfortable chuckle died out to a light cough.
“Excuse me, I just need to…” He pointed at the door to the stall behind her.
She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Really?”
“Well…”
“Hold it,” she said.
Arlo backed slowly out of the room. As the door closed, Gillian took a deep breath and grabbed her purse from the counter. Reaching inside for her lipliner, she cringed at the cold, wet lining that enfolded her hand. Oh god. The patent leather did a fine job of holding in coffee. Quite a selling point. They should have put that in the online description: Patent leather purse. $99.99. Doubles as a goldfish tank.
Gillian walked briskly into her cubicle, shoes only slightly coffee-logged at this point. Dropping her purse on the floor beside her office chair, she ignored the faint squishing sound as a tiny wave lapped up and over the maroon leather and onto the taupe high traffic carpet.
“Janet,” her boss’s monotonous voice droned from the doorway to her cubicle.
She’d worked in the same division for… she didn’t actually remember how many years… a while now, but Roger had never bothered to learn her name.
“Yes,” she said.
“You have a trainee.”
Gillian closed her eyes, squeezing the lids shut, silently praying that it would be some art school student with a nose ring and blue hair or a lumbering ox with slow but careful typing skills. Anything but-
“Oh, hello again!”
Arlo.
Today is the worst day of the rest of your existence.
The Second Chapter
Gillian woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across her head. Made her way outside to have a smoke, and then somebody spoke.
“Watch it!”
She jumped out of the way of the infernal bicycle messenger. Goddamnit. That one almost got her! Being mowed down by a twenty-nothing year old on a Schwinn was about the least dignified thing that Gillian could think of, short of dying on the can. Interestingly enough, a lot of famous people throughout history have died in that most unholy of places. The toilet. Elvis Presley being arguably the most notable. The King of Rock and Roll had a heart attack in the impressive salle de bain of his palatial Tennessee mansion. Even the king must bow to the porcelain goddess.
Gillian flicked her lit cigarette into the gutter. Maybe it was time
