trouble { h.s }

one

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I slam the People magazine down in disgust and roll my eyes. Another article about one direction, what a surprise. In my opinion, they were just a lame boy band for girls under the age of 13. I cross my right leg over my left and look around the room I was impatiently sitting in. The AC was on full blast, blowing icy wind on me every few seconds. The wall was painted a light gray with black and white fashion pictures hanging everywhere. Most were in Paris, one model near the Eiffel tower another at a cafe. Why was it always Paris? I mean, California is just as romantic... As long as you don't go near the allies. I bite the stem of my sunglasses and tap my hands on the coffee table next to me. How long was I going to be waiting here? I mean seriously? I have a life. I chuckle to myself at the thought. A life. Yeah right. Unless you count this as a life: Getting up at a practical time of 6:00 every morning. Jogging for half an hour, coming back and drinking a cup of coffee. Arriving at work right on time, not a minute late. Working my hardest, slaving behind the desk of Hollister, telling people where the bathroom was, giving them the key to the dressing room, telling people no, we don’t have clothes for pets. (You think I’m extraditing? I’m dead serious. This is California dude, anything can happen.) Eating a light salad at my lunch break. Driving home at-

“Miss Rowan?” A ladies voice interrupts my thoughts before I can get into my sleep habits.  I shoot up from my seat. I stumble in the heels that I squeezed my feet into this morning in an attempt to look professional for this “big meeting” with my boss.

“Yes ma’am?” I answer, regaining my balance. The lady looks me up and down. She raises an eyebrow and quickly scribbles something on her clipboard, shaking her head as she writes.  I sigh. I’ve only been here five minutes and I’ve made a complete fool of myself.

“Mr. Taylor will see you now.” She says snippily. This women meant business. She has short, natural blonde hair that’s framed around her face so perfectly it didn’t even look real. Her posture is perfect, so straight it seemed not even a sumo wrestler bumping into her would not knock her over.  Her eyes are a cool gray which seem to be able to see right through me. I certainly wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.  I pick up my purse and sling it over my shoulder. Nerves juggle around in my stomach as I walk closer to the door. I give a weak smile as I pass the lady. She gives me a disgusted look and spins around. Her heels click across the marble floor as she walks into Mr. Taylor’s office. I fallow her lead and walk into the room.

Mr. Taylor is a...how do I put this kindly... a... large man. Yes, that sounds good, a large man with gray hair that is neatly combed over to one side. He has a white mustache and glasses that rest on his nose. He's scribbling on some papers when I enter the room. He looks up and notions for me to sit down. I fallow his lead and pull out the chair at his desk. As I'm pulling the chair out, a box of pens fall and scatter all over the floor. I drop down and start picking them up rapidly. As I get up to put the pens back, my head hits the top of the desk. Searing pain shoots through my skull and my head throbs. I place the pens in there spot and sit in my seat. I give a weak smile, which probably ends up looking like I'm constipated, considering I'm wincing from the  pain in my  head.

"Are you ready now?" Mr. Taylor says. I can feel my cheeks flush. If I was called into here to get a raise, I could just forget it. I would be lucky to get out of here without burning the building down.

"Yes sir." I say.

"Well Ms. Rowan." Mr. Taylor clears in throat. "How do I put this lightly. Well, your.. er.. your fired." I can feel my heart stop. Fired? FIRED? How could I be fired! I came in the same time everyday, I work my butt off. Heck I've never taken time off, not even when my grandmother was in the hospital with a broken hip!