I glance at the clock on my nightstand: 9:46 a.m.
Shit! I’m late.
I jump out of bed in a panic and realize halfway through washing my face that I, in fact, actually have nowhere I need to be. That the routine I’ve been following all these years is no longer relevant—Wait. Wasn’t the pipe broken yesterday?
As I towel my skin dry, I walk out to my bedroom–slash–living room–slash–kitchen. A room divider between my bed and couch helps break up my studio apartment. It’s a tight fit in here, but it’s rent controlled. Which means I can afford to live alone.
I test the kitchen sink. That works, too. Then I see it: a white slip poking under my door. I freeze. A rent increase? Something else that’s broken?
I grab the slip. Building management brought someone out early this morning to fix the pipe.
Huh.
That’s shockingly fast. Last winter, I went for a whole month without heat because the superintendent was on an extended vacation and refused to check emails or phone calls.
That’s one problem solved. Now I need to fix another. It’s time to job hunt. Applying is all I can control right now.
But first, I need fuel. I finish washing up, get dressed, and head back to Sweet Escape.
The woman- and Asian-owned candy shop is a gem on the Lower East Side, close to where I live. Too close. Ever since the shop opened, I’ve been here every week, stocking up on candy for myself, usually after work. I have to imagine I’ve been their most loyal customer.
The outside door and window frames are painted a tangerine color. This place looks like a treasure box with souvenirs from international travels lining the mandarin-orange walls. Glass biscotti jars hold candy from all around the world. Small silver scoops and tongs are placed neatly on hand-painted ceramic dishes next to each jar.
“Back again?” Emma Chen says as the silver bells above the door tinkle. According to the shop’s website, Emma quit her job as a lawyer at forty-two to open this place.
I offer a tight-lipped smile. “Didn’t get enough yesterday.”
I grab a clear bag with the shop’s name printed on it and do my usual loop to see what calls out to me. I pass by salted butter caramels from France, sour kiwi gummies from Spain, and Crown Churroz from South Korea. I stop at the jar filled with White Rabbit candy, grabbing a few.
A door to the back room opens, and Gloria comes out with a box withblack licorice laceswritten on the side.
Gloria Van Asten is the spitting image of Helen Mirren but without the accent. From conversations I’ve overheard, she’s a seventy-one-year-old purse designer who lost her Upper East Side apartment in her highly contested divorce. Apparently, she still got a good amount of money from her ex-husband right before he died two months later.
“He was already dead to me,” Gloria once told a customer.
“We’re almost out of licorice,” Gloria tells Emma now. “It’d be good to have for Halloween.”
Emma smooths a strand of hair back into her blunt bob. “Already? Shoot.” She makes a note on a Post-it and sticks it on the whiteboard behind her. I hope that’s not her inventory system. “We sold through those fast.”
Gloria points the box in my direction. “You, again!” she says cheerily. I don’t think she actually works here, based on previous conversations I’ve overheard. Yet she’s always around. Gloria joins Emma behind the checkout counter and removes a tray. “Darling?”
I look around, confused. There’s no one else here right now so she must be talking to me. She waves me over.
“Hi?” I say, making my way to her slowly.
“What’s your name?” Gloria asks.
“I’m… Hazel,” I say. “Why?”
Gloria drops one of the licorices into her mouth, the black spaghetti-like string dangling over her chin. “Because we’d like to greet you with something other than,Darling!” she says around the candy. “As nice as that sounds.”
“You’re in here all the time,” Emma says. “Might as well know each other. I’m Emma.”
“It’s nice to see you outside of your typical after-work pop-by. Almost didn’t recognize you in the daylight,” Helen Mirren’s doppelgänger says. “I’m Gloria, but you can call me Glo.” This is information I already know from my research. She gives me another smile before going to refill more jars.
My gaze darts from her to a “We’re Hiring” sign placed beside the window display.
Emma watches me for a few seconds. “Are you on lunch break or something? Taking the day off?”
