“We’ll clean it up after work,” I promise her, knowing deep down that my good intention will probably never happen.
I pour some kibble and fresh water into Butters’ dog bowls and check the clock.
“Ugh, the time.”
I run to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and start the shower while I pee. I’m thinking about who’s on my schedule today and curse to myself when my period decides to make an early appearance.
I check the cabinet sink and roar in frustration when I discover I have only one damn tampon left.
One.
I really don’t have time for this.
Can this day possibly get any worse? I’d like to see it try.
katrina
Maybe it’sbecause I didn’t grow up using it, but I have a love-hate relationship with the New York City subway system. Sometimes it’s a girl’s best friend, getting me to where I need to go in record time, and other times it’s a day late and a dollar short.
Where the heck is my train?
I check my phone and see that I’m now officially five minutes late for work and the train still isn’t here.
What a fucking disaster.
I climb back up the concrete steps of the subway stop, attempt to get my bearings, and then ask my pair of Nike Air sneakers to help me run five city blocks as fast as humanly possible.
Once I arrive at the tall glass building I work in everyday, the doorman offers me a wave hello and I use the time in the elevator to change into a pair of simple black pumps, catch my breath, and calm myself down.
Fatima is sitting at her desk, with one earbud in, listening to something on her phone in the reception area when I approach. She whips her freshly cut wavy bangs to the side and raises her usual judgmental eyebrow at me. Her mother is a friend of the owner of the practice, John, which explains why a girl who doesn’t seem fond of work landed this job.
“Your ten o’clock is already in your office,” she tells me.
“Was he early?” I check the time again in panic mode, as if some sort of time wizard is going to give me the last fifteen minutes of my life back.
“No, he was fifteen minutes early actually,” she says with a smirk, then picks up her cell phone to avoid interacting with me any longer.
I can feel my hair swelling from the heat emanating from my scalp, and I try patting the puffy roots down with my hands before I take a few deep breaths to enter my office. God, I’m a mess.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
“Good morning.”
I’m immediately struck by the stranger sitting in my office when I open the door. He’s a large, sculpted mass of muscle, with an attractive face, tan skin and a head full of dark hair which he has styled in a messy man bun. He reminds me of an actor whose name I cannot recall from the classic HBO showGame Of Thrones, but much hotter.
I offer a cordial smile as I practically stumble inside the room, tossing my things in the corner, and extend my right arm toward him for a handshake.
My next mistake.
I cringe at myself. Typically, I don’t initiate physical contact with a client because not everyone is comfortable with it and it’s against best practices.
“Welcome to Well Minds Therapy, Mr. um–” I swerve my head around to take a peek at the paperwork on my desk because I have zero idea who the hell I’m meeting with today. I just know he’s a new client. “Mr. Warner. I’m Katrina Banks.”
Mr. Warner doesn’t reciprocate the handshake and there’s a long silence between us as we both examine each other carefully as I lower my arm. While I’m used to these kinds of awkward moments in my line of work, his inspection of me reeks of judgment. Not only does he seem annoyed, but it’s pretty obvious that he thinks I’m incompetent.
All I can see in my head are my sister’s lips turned up to one side, giving me that all too familiar look of I told you so. Hell, she was right. I should have stayed in bed. I have no business seeing clients today, especially this one.
