I snickered. “Thanks. The people working late tonight will probably thank you.” The light floral smell radiating off my beautiful friend worked as a smelling salt.
“How long do you work tonight? Here, mascara too.”
Moving toward the mirror on my desk, I applied a few swipes on my eyelashes, silently appreciating how much better I felt with these tiny adjustments to my tired face. “I’m signed on until nine. Probably nine-thirty by the time I get home. How’s Loverboy?”
“He’s good. He’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Anything new on the wedding plans?”
“I decided I hate planning weddings, and we might just elope.”
Laughing, I said, “Good luck getting your mom on board with that.”
“I’m twenty-five. I’d only have to ask forgiveness, not permission.”
“Not sure she’d ever forgive you.” I stood up from the table and turned to face my friend.
“I wish you didn’t have to do this,” she said, her eyes sunken with dread on my behalf. “It just sucks. How long until you pay it off?”
I shrugged, not really wanting to think about the sinking debt that caused all of this. “If I throw everything I make at this job toward the bill, maybe two years?”
Mira sucked in a breath. “I can help a little.”
“Don’t even think about it. It’s my problem. There are lots of worse things in the world.”
“Yeah, but most people pay it off while working in a career, hypothetically.”
“Or a second job,” I said brightly, ready to move on from this conversation.
“Have you heard anything from your mom?”
I laughed. “No. She doesn’t come around unless she’s in between husbands or boyfriends. So…”—I checked my watch—“according to my calculations, that will be another six months or so.”
“I hate that for you.”
“I think there’s a marketing firm somewhere in the building. Maybe I can rub shoulders with some of the graphic designers who work there and dazzle them with my wits.”
“A meet-cute in an elevator.” Mira’s voice turned excited. Our love for romantic comedies usually infiltrated our conversations more often than not. “What if you accidentally touch his hand while you’re both pressing the same floor number?”
“Aww,” I said, plucking my keys and phone from my desk and turning toward her. “And then he’d look me in the eye and whisper, ’Is that the hand you used while you were scrubbing the toilets?’”
She smacked me on my butt while I scooted away, laughing. “Get out of here! Go save a life or something.”
Our two-bedroom apartment had seen better days—about fifty years ago. The light-colored linoleum floors had a permanent dirt stain that gave the surface a cloudy effect, no matter how hard Mira and I scrubbed. The kitchen appliances were made in the eighties and worked about like you’d expect. Located close to downtown, it was close to the cafe and not too far from the office building where my aunt’s cleaning service was located. In the tight, galley kitchen, I threw together a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich to scarf down on my way.
“Did maintenance come and fix the fridge?” I called, noticing how the jam felt cold to my touch.
“No. They’ve still never shown up. Brock fiddled with it when he was here last night. Is it working better?” her voice called out from the bathroom. I could hear the water running, like she was washing her face.
“The jam is cold! So are all our pretty condiments!” I yelled, grasping at every bottle in the door of the fridge. “If you decide not to marry him, I’ll take him.”
“Yeah right.”
Sandwich in hand, I ignored the mail on the counter and made my way to the exit. “See ya tomorrow.”
Her reply was muffled as I closed the door, taking the outside apartment stairs two at a time to the parking lot while I focused on one more thing that made my stomach fall.
My first day at a new job.
