01 City

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Everybody here was someone else before.

Hailey's mother once told her, "Honey, you can go at life with a can of pepper spray and a gun, but all you really need is a tube of lipstick." Then she watched as her mother set down her hand mirror and smiled with her glossy, bright red lips, dark eyes dancing. "Well, at least in the world of appearances."

She set down her phone on the coffee table and opened a pocket mirror. She smiled. Hm. She did look every part the polished businesswoman with her long dark hair pulled back into a neat, tidy ballet bun. But her complexion was much too bleak, she decided, and she pulled out a tube of lipstick.

She applied one layer. And she applied another.

There. Two masks done.

Then she smiled again, her newly rouge lips standing out starkly against her pasty skin.

Her phone dinged. She let out a sigh, rolling her eyes as she swiped across on her phone. She could already predict the message waiting for her—something nagging about how stupid she was.

Where the hell are you? We're waiting for you here already.

She stood up, making sure to place a tip on the coffee table, gathered her belongings, and walked out of the warm café into the cold winter air. There, she joined the moving crowd of bodies pushing toward the subway. It was raining yet again. As she hopped down the stairs to the subway station, she pulled her hand along the railing, which was drenched.

What a bother, she thought, and pulled her scarf more vehemently around her neck.

Next to one of the graffitied concrete columns near the subway platform itself was a street performer, plucking away steadily at a ukulele. She paused near his case. The song sounded a little like "Three Little Birds". That was her brother's favorite song. Thoughtfully, she reached into her purse and dropped a twenty into the case. She didn't acknowledge the performer's nod, but only stood in silence with him until the subway arrived.

It had become second nature for her to glance at the subway headings before entering the subway. She had gotten onto the wrong train and only realized at the stops one too many times. She was going to 125th Street. Good. She turned to follow her fellow passengers, who were all elegant figures fitted in designer-brand rain jackets. She fit right in.

She smiled widely. Perfect.

Today was a relatively quiet day, so there were plenty of seats open once she got into the subway. Nevertheless, she shuffled to the back of the brightly lit car, choosing to hang onto an overhead handle. No one joined her. Half a minute later, the subway doors closed smoothly with an electric whir, and the train lurched forward. She watched as the walls of the concrete tunnel sped past her and wondered idly, as the train began to slow down, how the graffiti artists had managed to spray-paint the walls so far away from the platform.

They must have had extraordinarily good timing or special equipment, she decided.

Her phone called again from inside her purse. Damn it, what was up his ass today? She chose to ignore it, instead staring at a cute dark-haired stranger she'd never see again in her life. Why the hell not?

She stepped out of the train with everyone else. As she headed up the staircase leading up to one of the bustling streets, she rifled through her purse for her phone. Once she reached the street, a blast of raindrops assaulted her. She pulled her scarf over her lips. Trust city weather to be about as reliable as a Wi-Fi signal—not at all.

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