Rise of the Wadjet Witch - By Juliet C. Obodo Page 0,8
a few minutes before she had a thought: was Troy hotter than her? She jumped out of bed and looked in the mirror. She stood on her tippy toes to better examine her frame. She was in great shape—no love handles or hate rolls. Being an astronomer wasn’t an active job, but she lived in the city and, because of her current financial situation, walked everywhere. It was very European of her. At least, that’s what she told herself during rain, snow, and sleet. Even mail couriers had their trucks to take them up each block.
She moved closer to the mirror to examine her face. She had always hated her nose, but her dark skin was unmarked by the plague of post pubescent acne, and her long lashes gave her hazel eyes an exotic look. That was what everyone told her. She didn’t know if she got her eyes from her mother or her nose from her dad; she always wondered about that because she bore no resemblance to her foster parents and their ginger-haired offspring. She fashioned a fat braid out of her dark curls and headed to the kitchen.
Gemma had already left, and it looked as if she had a guest. Two cereal bowls stood in the sink as evidence.
“Well, someone in this place has to get laid,” the bowls snapped at her.
The coffee that Gemma left for her relieved the sting a bit. She was such a great roommate—in fact, a great girl all around. Of course she would have guys lining up to sleep with her. Memphis plopped down on the couch with her coffee, milked and sugared into an unrecognizable beige mixture. Taking tiny sips, she rifled through her bag in search of her emergency pack of cigarettes.
There would be no cross country walking this morning. She had enough self-doubt to last her a lifetime. She didn’t need a bunch of grannies trampling it into her with their bright white New Balance running shoes. Instead of finding her cigarettes in her secret pocket, she found the hypnotherapist’s business card.
Damn it, Jill. She must have made the switch the other night at dinner. She grabbed her phone to call and yell at her, and then beg her to tell her where she put her cigarettes. Then she thought better of it. Jill would ask her what happened to Operation: Resuscitation of Lungs, which would then lead to a discussion about Operation: Walking in on Your Ex-Boyfriend Getting a Blowjob from a Dude. That was a discussion she wished to save for never.
Before she knew it, her fingers were dialing the number to the hypnotherapist’s Manhattan office. First her feet, and now her fingers were applying for independence from her. The receptionist answered on the third ring, right before Memphis decided to hang up. Lucky her.
They were usually booked and never had appointments available this late in the month, but luckily a patient just cancelled one for this afternoon. Her next availability wouldn’t be for another three weeks. Once again, lucky her; Memphis took the appointment for three o’clock that afternoon and went back to bed for more sleep. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.
Memphis arrived at the Union Square station at a quarter to three. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep for so long, but the adrenaline rush of running away from Jonathan last night had worn off and left her limp and drowsy. She hadn’t even enough time to grab another cup of coffee before going to her appointment. She quickly walked over to 4th Avenue, signed in with the doorman, and took the stairs rather than the elevator. She absolutely hated arriving late, even if it was to a place she would rather not be.
There weren’t any other guests in the blue-themed waiting area. There also wasn’t anyone at the reception desk.
“Hello,” she called out. She hoped that this wasn’t another one of Jill’s pranks. This would be way too cruel. You don’t make light of smoking—you just don’t. Before the fuse to her temper could light, a woman stepped out of her office. She was rather tall and thin—and, well, beautiful.
“Hello there,” she responded. “Memphis, correct? Thank you for coming. I’m Dr. Thompson, but you can call me Susan.” She had a very thick accent; Memphis couldn’t place it. It might have been Middle Eastern. She seemed to float over to her and shook her hand. It was a two-handed shake, a sign of someone eager to please. Yay for