to stay for cookies,” she says as I set the package down on her floral rug. “You’re nothing but ribs and knees, young lady. You’ll never catch a husband looking like that. Men like a girl with a little bit of meat on her bones.”
“Oh, I wish I could.” I soften it with a smile. “Remember I have the job interview today?”
“Of course I remember!” she says indignantly. She probably didn’t; her memory’s a little spotty.
“I’ll come by later,” I assure her. “Your cookies are the best.”
In truth, they’re always stale and burnt around the edges. But Edna is lonely. Her daughter and grandchildren live in California and she only sees them at Christmas, and most of her friends have passed on. That’s why she orders packages that are too big to be moved without a forklift. Then she waits until a neighbor passes by, and pretends she’s trying to haul it to the elevator so they’ll have to help her.
I never let her know that I’m on to her, of course. And I make it a point to visit her a couple of times a week and let her beat me at gin rummy.
“Thanks again for getting me this interview, Edna. I won’t mess it up this time.”
I turn to go.
“Wait! I have a present for you.” Before I can protest, she shuffles very slowly across the room, her floral robe flapping around her skinny legs.
“Edna, can I get it tonight? I don’t want to be late!” I call to her hunched back.
She ignores me, stopping in front of an antique rosewood bureau. She stands there, hands on hips, surveying a selection of perfume bottles on a gilt tray. It’s less than a minute, but it feels like centuries. Just when I’m about to scream in frustration, she snatches one up in a claw-like hand and slowly starts making her way back towards me.
I sprint across the room and grab it faster than good manners would dictate.
“ThanksgottagoI’llseeyoulater!” I stuff the bottle in my purse and run out of the apartment and down the stairs.
I barrel through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, huffing and puffing in the cool May air.
To my relief, Jemma’s Wheely Good Coffee cart is parked in its usual spot. The line is long, though. I glance at my watch again; eight minutes until my cab arrives.
My gaze wanders over to the lot next to our building. Jemma the spy did not lie; the supervillain is there with his minion. And of course he’s standing with his back to me, talking to the construction crew. Not even noticing me when I’m looking my best. Typical.
Well, I primped and fluffed and preened for the job interview this morning, not for him. Definitely not for him.
As I slide into place in the coffee line, a wolf whistle distracts me.
I swing around with a scowl, ready to unleash a volley of indignation at the construction workers. Then I see it’s Isabella, just returned from her overnight shift. She smirks and makes her way towards me, still wearing her blue nurses’ scrubs.
“Can’t a stunningly gorgeous girl wait in line for coffee without being objectified?” I ask.
“Not on my watch.” Isabella delicately pats her hand over a yawn. “Off to your interview? I’ll join you for a decaf. Hey, want to hear what we pulled out of this dude’s butt last night?”
She gets a dirty look from a yoga-pants-wearing mom who’s pushing a jogging stroller past us. She shrugs. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Good call.”
As soon as the huffy mom passes us, she leans in and whispers “Cucumber. A honking big cucumber.”
“What the what!” I choke on a laugh. “Why, Isabella? You know I love cucumbers. Why would you ruin them for me?”
And could this line move any slower?
Nervously, I raise my hand to my hair, patting my curls, trying to make them…I don’t know, less curly.
“Stop fussing with your hair. You’re going to make it frizz. It looks fine,” she chastises me, and I drop my hands to my sides. She steps back and surveys me with a critical eye, then nods. “All of you looks fine. And not fine as in, ‘Eh, okay.’ Fine as in, ‘Damn, she looks fine.’ They’d be fools not to hire you.”
I swivel to examine myself in a mirrored shop window, as if my appearance has changed since I last checked. I tilt my head to the side and squint critically at myself.
“I don’t know. Does this look sing ‘boho chic’, or does it whimper