Spotted
Shit. Therese flung the covers off of her bed and then made a run for the bathroom. Whilst frantically brushing her teeth she checked her wristwatch. 8:42. She had to be at Frankenburgs by nine and the subway was a guaranteed minimum of 10 minutes. This wasn't the first time that Therese had overslept this week either. She had also already received a written warning for her 'unprofessional punctuality' from that bitch boss of hers. Whats more she really needed this job. Really. She glanced out of the window of her Bronx apartment and was greeted by the warm, spring sunshine. Who needed curtains anyway? She preferred to call her interior style minimalism, instead of I can't afford anything. It had always been her dream to move to the city, but the increased standards of living was taking a toll on her bank account, she was already a month behind on rent. After pulling on black skinny jeans, black boots and a white ribbed top, she grabbed her trench coat and bag and headed out the door. It was a no-makeup and unruly hair day, but who cares? It's not like she'd see anyone of any importance today.
She jogged along the sidewalk, expressing a sympathetic 'sorry!' to every passer by that she hit with her bag before swinging around the railing and running down the steps of the Caroll St. station. FUCK. Therese watched the train pull away from platform one whilst still in the barrier queue. Commuters flooded to platform two, -their train hadn't come yet they were all organised, she unconsciously scowled at them before marching over to the deserted side. She meandered to the end of the track, hoping to get a seat on the next train. Knowing her luck she wouldn't and would have to stand squished up against somebody else with an armpit in her face, it was almost a certainty. Sighing, she perched on the end of a bench and carelessly flung her bag down beside her. It was a Chanel Tote. Black, shiny and quilted with a heavy black and gold chain. Classic, elegant. It was Therese's pride and joy, something that her mother had given her for her 18th. If she wanted to be a hotshot lawyer, she needed to at least look the part.
'You need to make your own way.' God. She count count the number of times her mother had told her that, at the marble table in their suave manhattan penthouse while the maid brought in the breakfast with a jealous and dissatisfied sneer. She knew her mother was right, but it was just so hard. Let's face it, she was pretty close, as in she had survived 2 years of American Law at NYU, had a part time job to subsidise her accommodation, and a meagre living allowance from her grandparents. But it would be so easy to just drop everything and go away. Travel to Europe, or do charity work in Africa like most of her rich friends did.
Pulling out her phone, she angrily scrolled through notifications. A twitter request. No. Her Aunt wishing her a Happy Birthday for yesterday. An email or two offering some crappy offer that she had no time or effort for. A message from Richard. Goddamn it, why can't he understand that we've broken up already. It pathetically read, 'hey baby, I miss you. Call me, please?' With a huff she ignored it and stuffed the phone back into her bag.
Next train was still three minutes away.
Resting. Her elbows on her knees, her face on her palms, she stared dejectedly at the track. A jolt of emptiness stung her and she shivered. She felt so alone.
Danny stared down at his camera, concentrating. His tongue poked out of his mouth as manipulated the lens. 'There, that ought to do it,' he said with content and only to himself of course. Besides, there was only one other girl ahead of him on the platform anyway. He bent slightly, angling his camera in a parallel to the track. He wanted a test shot to make sure his camera was saved, this way no-one would need to know he had almost killed it after dropping it of the bathroom ledge in the hotel this morning. The girl was facing him now, still about fifty metres away and looking straight down the platform, through him almost. She sat, one arm swinging in between her legs, one arm propping her head up. That should be perfect. It was a perfect scene after all. He snapped a couple of shots and the image sang off the screen. Oo, arty. He smiled to himself as the next train approached, next stop JFK. And then home. Home to Paris, to Louise and their new baby. He had taken some great shots in New York and was profoundly positive for once in his life that his boss, PR manager, Miss Abigail Gerhard, wouldn't kill him. She couldn't.