“Hi. Would you have a cream silk blouse? Or white? Or…” I shook my head and looked down. “Basically anything I can put on with this skirt?”
The woman eyed my top. I gave her credit for not reacting. Instead, she nodded, and I followed her to a rack where she pulled out three different silk blouses. Any of them would do. Relieved, I asked where the fitting room was, and she started to walk me toward the back of the store. But when someone called out from the register, she pointed to a door and barked something at me in a mix of Italian and English. I thought it might be “I’ll check on you in a moment,” but whatever. It didn’t seem too important.
Inside the dressing room, I looked at myself in the mirror. My lips glowed bright red. The pound of cherries I’d eaten on the train must’ve stained them. “Shit,” I mumbled and rubbed at my mouth. But it wasn’t coming off before my interview. Thankfully my teeth had been spared. Those damn cherries had turned out to be a disaster. Though I didn’t have time to deal with anything else, so I shook my head, pulled off my ruined top, and took one of the blouses from the hanger. Before I slipped it on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should clean up a bit. The hot subway car had left me feeling not too fresh. So I grabbed my purse and fished out an old wet wipe from a wing place I’d gone to a few weeks ago. Thankfully, it was still moist. A lemony scent wafted through the air as I raised my right arm to wipe, and I wondered if that smell would transfer to my skin. Curious, I bent my head and sniffed. Which was exactly the position I was in when the fitting room door whipped open.
“What the…？” The man on the other side immediately went to close it. But he paused halfway with his brows knitted. “What are you doing?”
Of course, because my day couldn’t get any shittier, the guy had to be gorgeous. His stunning green eyes caught me off guard, but I quickly regained my wits when I realized I was still holding up my arm and he’d just watched me sniff my armpit.
Flustered, I folded both hands over my lacy bra. “Does it matter? Get out!” Reaching forward, I yanked the door shut, brushing it against the intruder as it closed. “Go find the men’s room!” I yelled.
From the bottom of the door, I could see the man’s shiny shoes. They weren’t moving.
“For your information,” his gravelly voice rumbled, “…this is the men’s room. But I’ll let you wash your pits in peace.”
When the shiny shoes finally disappeared, I blew out two cheeks full of air. This day just needed to end. But I still had one more interview left, which I was going to be late to if I didn’t hurry my ass up. I didn’t even bother to wash under my other arm before trying on the first shirt. Thankfully, it fit, so I changed back into my own lovely blouse and rushed to the cashier while still tucking it in. I expected to see the guy who’d busted into the fitting room waiting around, but thankfully he was nowhere in sight.
As I waited for the salesperson to ring me up, I looked back at the fitting room and noticed that the door I’d thought the woman had pointed to was actually right next to another door, and that one had the Ladies sign above it. The one I’d been in was clearly marked Men.
Crap. Perfect.
The shirt cost me a hundred-and-forty dollars—about a hundred-and-twenty bucks more than the one it replaced, which I’d picked up at Marshalls. Since that was almost enough to deplete my sad checking account these days, I needed to land this last job—the interview for which I only had a few minutes left to get to. So I rushed to the building a few doors down, did a Superman-speed change in the ladies’ room in the lobby, ran my fingers through my hair, and applied an extra layer of lipstick over my already too-red lips to even out the cherry stains.
The elevator ride up to the thirty-fifth floor was about as speedy as the train ride downtown had been. The car stopped at almost every floor to let people on and off, so I took out my phone and scanned my emails to avoid stressing about being a minute or two late. Unfortunately, that turned out to be even more draining, since I’d received two new email rejection letters from jobs I’d submitted my resumé to—including one from the place I’d interviewed earlier today. Great. I felt completely defeated, especially since I was now walking in to interview for a job I knew I wasn’t qualified for, even if Kitty had put in a good word for me.