It’s the guy from Starbucks that I showered in coffee.
Shit, I hope he doesn’t see me. He may very well march over here and demand I fork out for a new shirt.
What’s he doing around here in the middle of the day, anyway? Shouldn’t he be down on Wall Street or something? He’s clearly a businessman, and as I watch him from across the street, my mind fills in a few other details about the kind of guy I think he is: single, probably a bit of a womanizer with that physique, living in a penthouse or other fancy apartment with views of the park. He seems like the type to get up early and hit the gym before work, which I imagine to be the kind of job where people shout into phones all day and only care about the bottom line.
I mean, okay, I could be wrong. Everything I know about men like him I’ve learned from films like The Wolf of Wall Street. But he just looks like a typical New York businessman.
He turns to cross the road and before I can even register what’s happening, I’ve ducked behind a lamppost to hide. For some reason my heart is thumping, and I get a flashback to his scowling face in Starbucks. He was so pissed off, and if he does expect me to stump up the cash now, I’d be royally fucked.
I brave a peek around the post and notice he’s heading down the street, away from me.
Thank God.
My head slumps forward in relief, and that’s when I notice the paper tacked to the post. It’s a “help wanted” advert. No mention of what the job is, but it specifies women. There’s no experience required, and it pays in cash. That’s all I need to know.
I whip my phone out and dial the number as fast as I can, and it’s not until it starts ringing that it occurs to me it could be something really shady. Shit, I could be ringing a pimp right now. I’m not that desperate.
Am I?
No, don’t be silly, I tell myself. I’m sure it’s something perfectly reasonable. Besides, I don’t have many options. As long as it’s not prostitution—or something else illegal—I’ll do it.
I cross my fingers as the call connects.
Well, the good news is that I’m not selling my body or dealing drugs. The bad news is that I have to wear a wedding dress and hand out fliers up and down West 8th to advertise a bridal boutique.
It’s been three days now and I have to admit, it’s a little humiliating. Especially the dress; it’s polyester and taffeta and just plain unflattering. It smells like it’s been worn by many people before me, and it itches, so I have to wear a white tank top and leggings underneath. But it’s not just that. The irony of wearing a wedding dress every day when I’m feeling ready to give up on love is not lost on me.
I’m trying to be positive, though, because it has some unexpected perks. I mean, with all that walking up and down the street I’m getting in a lot of steps, so that has to be good for me. And it gives me several hours to just think.
Today, I thought about my writing. I used to write a blog a few years ago—mostly about dating and how shit it was—and I was thinking I might try writing on there again, just to warm up. That’s my plan for tonight: write a blog post about moving to the city.
But first, dinner. I spot a pizza place on the walk home to Cat’s apartment after work. After popping back to change out of my white leggings and tank (thankfully, I don’t have to walk home in the hideous wedding dress), I head out to grab one.
I take the massive pizza box from the counter with an embarrassed smile. Apparently ordering a whole pizza for one was a mistake. It’s huge. In New Zealand a pizza is about the size of a dinner plate. This pizza is bigger than a manhole cover. By the time I get back to the building my arms are starting to ache with the effort of carrying the damn thing.
I’m about to step into the apartment when I hear an odd noise coming from upstairs. It kind of sounds like crying, but I can’t be sure. With the pizza box hot in my hands, I climb a couple of steps until I can peek onto the next floor. Sitting in the hall, clutching a book and backpack, is a boy, around ten years old. His legs are crossed and he’s sitting with his back leaning against a door, like he’s waiting for someone.
I climb another step and clear my throat so he knows I’m there. He glances up, quickly wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Hi. Are you okay?”
He nods, looking down at his hands. I think he’s embarrassed I’ve caught him crying, so I try to say something reassuring.
“It’s okay to cry if you’re upset. I cried not that long ago because my boyfriend wanted to break up, so then I decided to move to New York and—” I break off with a cringe. Probably best to leave it there.
He gives me a peculiar look.
Okay, so that wasn’t the right approach. He must think I’m some kind of maniac, cornering him in the hallway and bleating on about crying.
My gaze drops to the book in his hands. It’s Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. “Are you reading that?”
“Yes.”
“Woah,” I say, impressed. “That’s difficult reading for someone so young.”
He shrugs. “We read a lot in my family.”
I take another step up. “Yeah, well, reading is awesome. Where are you up to?”
“Um, I’ve just started. It’s taking me a while.”
“You know, I think there’s a kids’ version of that book.”
“I know.” He frowns. “But it was too easy.”
I chuckle. This kid likes a challenge.
“Where are you
