There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I could definitely get this edited by end of week. I have the bandwidth," Mara says into her webcam, dialed into a company conference call. One of the greatest lies any dedicated worker could ever tell their manager is they have an abundance of non-existent time and energy to impressively complete a task ahead of schedule. She drums her fingers against a stack of papers of the manuscript. "The next Twilight," according to her bosses. A story about a brave young girl taking an excursion across the U.S. to find herself and in the process finds love. Well written, she thinks, and realistic dialogue. And though the writer has an interesting way with words, she finds it hard to concentrate on the meeting's discussion.
She adjusts the lapel of her navy blazer and smooths the creases of her white button up underneath with her hands. While her top half is all business, her bottom is covered by nothing more than a cheap pair of pin-striped men's boxers she loves to sleep in. They'll never know.
"That's why we love you, Mara! Our super star!" Her manager paces back and forth in the filled meeting room. "Does someone on the line have construction going on? If so, please mute yourself."
Mara is pleasantly ignorant to the clamor of her ancient dishwasher behind her. What kind of jackass mows their lawn during an 8 AM conference call? The humming builds. She rolls her eyes, still believing she's innocent, as dirty gray water seeps out the sides and bottom of the machine in her kitchen.
"Not me."
"Me neither."
"I'm in my office. Door is closed."
All the other remote workers chime in. The speaker icon of the conference line by Mara's name indicates the noise is coming from her. Her eyes widen as she's suddenly aware of the noise behind her in the kitchen. Glancing over her shoulder, steam billows above the counter followed by a foul odor.
"Um..." Mara fidgets with her top. "I think that might be me. I'm so sorry." She goes to stand and remembers her near-bare bottom half. "Shiii - sure wish I would have gotten that thing fixed before I moved in! I'm so sorry, everyone. I have to go and have to get this handled. I'm really really sorry."
With a bang of the vibrating dishwasher, Mara hangs up. They'll never take me seriously. At least they didn't see the boxers in my last meeting with them all.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She grabs a wad of paper towels and attempts to clean up the mess to no avail. A puddle of dirty water gathers on the floor. "Why me? WHY ME? Stop. Just stop," she yells at the dishwasher like a frustrated wizard whose spell is failing. Quickly turning off the machine, she puts on her combat boots - no time to tie them - and runs downstairs to face the super she's subconsciously been trying to avoid.
A myriad of sounds poke through the cracks around Harry's ajar door. Jingling bells and frustrated grunts. The most obvious sound of them all, however, is the playing of Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain."
