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I let out another sigh, this one of exasperation, as I prop my legs up on the coffee table. As soon as I cross my ankles, I hear the sound of nylon ripping. I glance at the back of my leg and frown at the gaping hole in my stocking.
Great. Another pair of stockings ruined. And I just bought this one the other day. Maybe I should start a pile so I can see how many I waste before I finally land a job. If I do land a job. The way things have been going, I’ve started to wonder if I can.
So many people are looking for jobs, after all. Not just me. And half of them are probably better than I am. They’re younger, because unlike me, they didn’t take sabbatical before tenth grade, or eleventh or twelfth. Or they’re older and more experienced, wiser. Or just smarter, more confident, with a better dress or a brighter smile, the kind of smile you can only wear if you’ve never had anything bad happen to you.
Is it too late for me to have a future?
The sound of metal clattering to the floor jolts me to my feet. My heart hammers in my chest.
An intruder? Has someone broken into my apartment?
My thoughts stutter. What do I do? Should I head out the door? Should I call the cops?
Both sound like reasonable options, but first, I have to make sure that there is an intruder. The last thing I want is for the cops to think I’m crazy. Not that I haven’t been called that before.
I tiptoe to the bathroom. After a few steps, I see the door. It’s slightly open, but I don’t see anyone inside. I don’t hear a sound either.
I stop in my tracks. What if the intruder is waiting for me, getting ready to pounce on me?
That thought sends me looking around for a weapon. I need one to defend myself just in case.
My gaze falls on the knife block by the kitchen sink. It’s too far away, though. Besides, I don’t want to stab anyone by accident, or worse, get stabbed. I consider the pen on the counter before deciding on a book within reach. If the intruder tries anything funny, I’ll just whack him on the head as hard as I can or hit him in the crotch with a pointy corner.
I hold it with both hands and proceed. Just in front of the door, I draw a deep breath.
One. Two…
At the count of three, I kick the door open. Greenish yellow eyes stare back at me in indifference.
I let out a breath of relief as I lower my book. The grey and white Birman goes back to licking its paw on the shelf above my toilet, completely oblivious and unconcerned about what it’s just put me through.
“Trespassing again, are we, Molly?”
The cat doesn’t seem to have heard me.
I glance at the bathroom window. Oh well. It’s my fault I left it open. Again. I guess I should be glad it’s not big enough to let a person in.
I close the window and pick up the can of scented wax cubes that has fallen on the floor. I place it beside the sink before grabbing my uninvited guest from its perch. It protests with a meow.
“Now, now, Molly. You know the bathroom is no place for you.” I stroke her fur in an effort to console her as I carry her across the living room. “Actually, my apartment is no place for you. I don’t even know why you like it. It’s tiny and old. I’m sure your apartment is much better. In fact, I know it is.”
Another meow.
“Let me guess. You snuck out while Mrs. Garland was having her nap. Well, I’ve got to get you back.”
I place the pumps I discarded earlier on the shoe rack and grab my Keds so I can slip them on.
“I’m not a pet sitter, you know.”
Pet sitter. Well, there’s an idea, actually. Sure, I’ve got a degree from a respectable university, but what use is a college diploma if it can’t get me a job?
I look at the cat in my arms. “At least pet sitting is something I’ve got experience in.”
It blinks in agreement.
I’m about to open the front door on my way to return Molly to her owner when my phone rings. I make a 180-degree turn and rush to answer it. Who knows? It might be about a job.
The moment I see the name on the screen, though, my excitement vanishes.
Mom.
Okay. Not what I wanted. Still, I have to answer. If I don’t, she’ll just keep calling.
I tap the screen and hold the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Cathy?” I hear my mother’s soft, scratchy voice.
It’s been that way since she had a tumor removed from her larynx five years ago, though she likes to say it’s because she loves karaoke too much.
