hospital.
I’m fishing change out of my wallet when I spot him staring up at me from the magazine rack below the counter. I jump back and almost drop my purse. It’s a full-page headshot of Merrick —the sexy smirk, the sea blue eyes, the coiffed brown hair—with the slogan Business’ Bad Boy emblazoned across the bottom in bold, black letters.
Take me home, Sara.
“That’ll be a dollar twenty-five,” the cashier says.
I pry my eyes away from the magazine.
“Uh, right, sorry.” I hand her the money.
I place the pack of gum and my wallet in my purse and turn to leave. I don’t get far. Mr. Merrick’s picture calls to me again.
Take me home, Sara. You know you want to.
I don’t expect to understand any of the articles in New York Financial so I’d be purchasing the magazine solely to ogle the cover, which would be a pitiful waste of three dollars and fifty cents. On the other hand, if Mr. Merrick is on the cover, there must be an article on him inside. Maybe I’ll learn something that I can bring up at dinner tonight.
Someone coughs behind me.
“Damn you,” I say to Mr. Merrick’s picture as I snatch the magazine off the rack.
Another issue falls forward and I resist grabbing that one, too. There are at least six or seven copies on the stand. If I don’t restrain myself, I’ll probably end up buying them all.
With a sigh, I slap the magazine down onto the counter. “This, too.”
After paying, I shove the magazine into my purse covertly, as though I’m trafficking illegal drugs, and then hop on the subway to Brooklyn.
The elevator in my apartment building arrives slowly, as usual, and I shuffle inside for the ride up to the tenth floor. My building doesn’t have any fancy amenities and is in need of a makeover, but it’s not filthy or rat-infested and the rent is affordable. It suits my no-frills lifestyle just fine.
By the time I enter my studio apartment, lock up using both the bolt and chain, and toss my bag to the floor, I’m exhausted. I glance around my rabbit-hole, noticing the dishes that need to be put away and the pile of laundry at the foot of my bed that has to be lugged to the Laundromat, but my eyes gravitate to the magazine jutting from my purse.
Within a minute, I’ve changed into black yoga pants and a plain pink T-shirt, and I’m sitting at my computer desk, waiting for my laptop to boot up. There are some bills to take care of which means a further drain on my bank account. I’m thisclose to living solely on credit for the next two weeks. If something comes up I didn’t budget for, I’m finished. It’s not easy living in Brooklyn on a novice nurse’s salary.
The thought of Mr. Merrick smirking at me from my purse is unnerving.
Take me out, Sara. Read me . . .
I glare at my purse. “Shut up.”
The computer processor buzzes and the fan labors to keep up, but finally, the desktop screen loads. The image that greets me is a family photograph taken two years ago. As I study our smiling faces, I make a mental note to call my parents sometime this weekend. I miss them a lot. We talk regularly over the telephone, but with each passing month, I feel increasingly distant from them. I don’t regret my move because my life desperately needed a shake-up, but I guess the saying be careful what you wish for was coined for a reason. Mr. Merrick is more than a shake-up; he’s an earthquake.
Open me, Sara. Take a look inside. I’m right here . . .
After logging into online banking, I pay my monthly bills. Almost eighty dollars remains after I’m done, which is a ton of extra money to me. Working overtime definitely pays off.
I’m about to shut down my computer when I get an idea.
I re-open my Internet browser and type in the first letters of the URL . . .
www.goo
. . . And then stop and tuck my hands into my lap.
Am I really doing this?
It screams stalker. Then I think about Mr. Merrick’s lips on mine. If the man can suck my face, I can look him up on the
I’m fishing change out of my wallet when I spot him staring up at me from the magazine rack below the counter. I jump back and almost drop my purse. It’s a full-page headshot of Merrick —the sexy smirk, the sea blue eyes, the coiffed brown hair—with the slogan Business’ Bad Boy emblazoned across the bottom in bold, black letters.
Take me home, Sara.
“That’ll be a dollar twenty-five,” the cashier says.
I pry my eyes away from the magazine.
“Uh, right, sorry.” I hand her the money.
I place the pack of gum and my wallet in my purse and turn to leave. I don’t get far. Mr. Merrick’s picture calls to me again.
Take me home, Sara. You know you want to.
I don’t expect to understand any of the articles in New York Financial so I’d be purchasing the magazine solely to ogle the cover, which would be a pitiful waste of three dollars and fifty cents. On the other hand, if Mr. Merrick is on the cover, there must be an article on him inside. Maybe I’ll learn something that I can bring up at dinner tonight.
Someone coughs behind me.
“Damn you,” I say to Mr. Merrick’s picture as I snatch the magazine off the rack.
Another issue falls forward and I resist grabbing that one, too. There are at least six or seven copies on the stand. If I don’t restrain myself, I’ll probably end up buying them all.
With a sigh, I slap the magazine down onto the counter. “This, too.”
After paying, I shove the magazine into my purse covertly, as though I’m trafficking illegal drugs, and then hop on the subway to Brooklyn.
The elevator in my apartment building arrives slowly, as usual, and I shuffle inside for the ride up to the tenth floor. My building doesn’t have any fancy amenities and is in need of a makeover, but it’s not filthy or rat-infested and the rent is affordable. It suits my no-frills lifestyle just fine.
By the time I enter my studio apartment, lock up using both the bolt and chain, and toss my bag to the floor, I’m exhausted. I glance around my rabbit-hole, noticing the dishes that need to be put away and the pile of laundry at the foot of my bed that has to be lugged to the Laundromat, but my eyes gravitate to the magazine jutting from my purse.
Within a minute, I’ve changed into black yoga pants and a plain pink T-shirt, and I’m sitting at my computer desk, waiting for my laptop to boot up. There are some bills to take care of which means a further drain on my bank account. I’m thisclose to living solely on credit for the next two weeks. If something comes up I didn’t budget for, I’m finished. It’s not easy living in Brooklyn on a novice nurse’s salary.
The thought of Mr. Merrick smirking at me from my purse is unnerving.
Take me out, Sara. Read me . . .
I glare at my purse. “Shut up.”
The computer processor buzzes and the fan labors to keep up, but finally, the desktop screen loads. The image that greets me is a family photograph taken two years ago. As I study our smiling faces, I make a mental note to call my parents sometime this weekend. I miss them a lot. We talk regularly over the telephone, but with each passing month, I feel increasingly distant from them. I don’t regret my move because my life desperately needed a shake-up, but I guess the saying be careful what you wish for was coined for a reason. Mr. Merrick is more than a shake-up; he’s an earthquake.
Open me, Sara. Take a look inside. I’m right here . . .
After logging into online banking, I pay my monthly bills. Almost eighty dollars remains after I’m done, which is a ton of extra money to me. Working overtime definitely pays off.
I’m about to shut down my computer when I get an idea.
I re-open my Internet browser and type in the first letters of the URL . . .
www.goo
. . . And then stop and tuck my hands into my lap.
Am I really doing this?
It screams stalker. Then I think about Mr. Merrick’s lips on mine. If the man can suck my face, I can look him up on the
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