Armenian Rose

Kim woke up to the relentless cheerfulness of a Tuesday morning, the sunbeams conspiring to blind her through the window. "Holy pastramis," she muttered, springing out of bed as if catapulted. This was it: her first real job after four months of wallowing in the wake of a truly disastrous breakup—a breakup that had involved, regrettably, her former boss.

She splashed water on her face, the cool spray a stark contrast to the heat rising in her cheeks at the memory. "Never again," she vowed, scrubbing vigorously. "No more boss-related scandals. Please, let her be a woman. Even if she's a hell-demon, it's better than… that."

Just as she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, a disembodied voice startled her from the hallway. "Ms. Niles, your appointment is scheduled for 10:30 AM. That's thirty minutes from now. Best hurry." It was the machine, an electronic harbinger of doom. Kim's heart sank. "I'm gonna lose my job without an interview," she groaned, frantically pulling on whatever her hand landed on. Aztec-patterned skirt? White crop top? Sure, why not.

She burst out of her apartment building, a blur of wet hair and hurried apologies, and flagged down a taxi. "Office of Olsen Culver, fast!" she gasped, tumbling into the back seat. The driver, a man whose confused expression made him look uncannily like Popeye, peered at her in the rearview mirror. "Um, ma'am…"

"Yeah, what?" she snapped, already picturing the 'rejected' stamp on her forehead.

"Your hair is wet," he offered.

Kim touched her head. Damp. Very damp. She'd completely forgotten to dry it. "I know!" she bluffed, forcing a bright smile. "It's the new trend. Makes it look wonderful, trust me." The driver merely blinked. "Oh."

At the towering office building, she practically flew out of the cab, nearly getting clipped by a speeding car. "Hey, watch it!" she yelled, then sighed. "New Yorkers." A dry smile, a sprint through the revolving doors, and she was in. Hopefully, not too late.