Page 3 of The Publicity Stunt
A full-scale war in a car packed with people who all want the same thing and will violate all standards of human behavior to get it.
“This is a Brooklyn-bound 6 train. The next stop is Canal Street.”
With one hand gripping the railing, I use the other to secure my phone and brace myself for the grand finale: on which side will the doors open this time?
The train comes to a screeching halt and the doors open on the left. The station is more crowded than usual today. There are a few people asleep on the bench and the smell of, well, something very unpleasant is ripe in the air.
I scramble out, my four-inch booties clicking against the concrete, and make my way upstairs, squeezing through the metal turnstile, and out the exit on—
Shit.
I quickly take cover under the awning of a nearby Starbucks. Just great. It’s raining. As if this day couldn’t get any worse. Reaching into my purse, I whip out an umbrella.
This is the only romantically cynical bone in my body. Rain is not romantic. And rain in New York is definitely not romantic. My hair gets all frizzy, there are trash-filled puddles everywhere, and I end up having to balance my umbrella, my purse, and my phone, all with the two hands I possess.
“Oh, shoot!” I swiftly sidestep around someone’s white Lhasa Apso puppy. “Sorry!” I yell and resume my walking.
See? New York rains are the worst.
I pick up the pace and my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Holly.
Hol: ETA?
Without stopping, I quickly type out a response.
Me: Ten minutes. Order an espresso martini for me? And ask if they can put a little coffee bean on top. I need a little pick-me-up today.
“A little pick-me-up” is the understatement of the century after the day I’ve had. Look, let me just start by saying I’m normally a very cheerful person. If my life was a romantic comedy, I’d be the girl who radiates sunshine energy.
A hopeful romantic, if you will.
In other words, I’m the idiot who believes in love even if love doesn’t seem to believe in me. And what happened today is proof enough.
Ajax and I met on Tinder. Yup. His name should’ve been red flag number one. Anyway, we agreed to meet in Central Park for our first date. An afternoon picnic. Cute, right?
Nope.
I offered to bring some iced tea and he said he would bring everything else needed.
When I got there, “Ajax” proceeded to pull out an aluminum blanket and a bottle of strawberry lube. The man then giggled and said, “Told you I’d get all that was needed.”
No food. Just some tinfoil and lube. So naturally, I bolted and phoned my sister to meet for some drinks. Some things are weird even by New York standards.
My phone buzzes again.
Hol: They don’t have that here.
I groan.Me: What kind of bar doesn’t have an espresso martini? And why did you choose that bar?
Hol: Because it’s across from the hospital and doctors get a discount.
I can practically hear her disdain through the screen.
Me: Fine, any martini will do. P.S. Never letting you pick a place again.
Two years younger, two inches shorter, and two times smarter, Holly and I look nothing alike, which is understandable since I’m adopted, but it’s not just our looks. With a personality that could frighten Darth Vader himself, Holly isn’t as evil, but her death stares make you want to hide under your blanket and never come out.
If I’m the sunshine girl, then she’s my fierce and grumpy counterpart. But when shit goes down, there’s no one I’d rather have on my team.
