Madly.

Four.

One Month Later...

The day started just as normally as any other day did. Madden had hit snooze on her pre-set alarms 4 times, jumped out of bed, hopped into the shower, and picked her outfit for the day, all while trying not to think about the tasks she had ahead of her. Meetings, deadlines, invoices, and Satan's child(ren) awaited her at work, so she got ready with extra care, determined to have a good day and dress so well that Narissa and Nicole could find no flaw in her appearance (as they always seemed to find joy in doing just that). Madden chose her whitest v-neck tee shirt and tucked it into her cutest dark jeans, opting for a dark black blazer made out of a deceitfully soft fabric. She took her time braiding her hair into a halo and accessorized with red heels, red lipstick, and her usual wedding ring necklace, creating the facade of professionalism and sophistication, when in reality, she was incredibly comfortable and poised for any attack her coworkers could throw at her that day. Today she would not be the prey. No, today, she was the predator. (A nice predator, that is, who wore really cool shoes, dropped things a lot, and really liked hugs.)

Madden had even made sure to wake up earlier, giving her an hour until she had to be in the office. She strapped on her watch, grabbed her bag, and entered the elevator with a huge smile, knowing that today Nicole and Narissa were just tiny blips on her radar. The thought filled her with happiness, plus, she had time to grab a muffin. Could this morning get any better? To say the least, Madden was feeling absolutely bubbly.

She hummed her favorite song as she strutted down the street, her bag rising and falling against her waist with each step. Sounds filled her ears, coming from all directions. Sirens, incessant chatter, horns, and the sounds of thousands of feet colliding with the pavement overwhelmed her head, yet she still found some way to daydream, as she always did.

She glided into Café Diem, the café that practically oozed good vibes onto the street that resided right around the corner of Strauss Towers. She had been itching to try it since she she moved in, but had never gotten the chance. Her expression was dreamlike and wistful as she ordered a blueberry muffin and an orange juice while mechanically handing the man a 10 dollar bill and collecting her change. She was thinking about the handsome stranger she held hands with in the rain in her dream the night before and the fact that people who were born blind had never seen the color blue in their lives and how that deeply saddened her, for she quite enjoyed the color blue. (Our heroine's thoughts tend to be quite everywhere.)

She was snapped out of her reverie when she had to find a place to sit. Cupcake-resembling pastry and citrus flavored liquid in her hand, she noticed that the tables were laden with white paper littered with writings of many colors all across them. Red pen, yellow highlighter, and dark black marker drawings jumped out from every direction and she was flooded with the desire to read and discover each word and picture individually. Sadly, her time was limited and she chose a seat on the bar by the window. She looked down at the tablecloth, hoping to see something raw and emotional written on the cloth,  but her spot was only covered in profanities and nasty drawings. Madden frowned and picked at her muffin, choosing to look out the window instead, quite disappointed that the writings at her spot weren't deep and thoughtful like she expected.

However, the sights out the window weren't much better. From her spot, she observed a young couple fighting very profusely, a mother on the phone while a crying child pulled her coat, a young girl who dropped the entire contents of her bag, and a tourist who burst into tears when the vendor she was buying from yelled at her. It seemed that no one around her was having a good day. She was so consumed with compassion for each one of the sad people she saw and the vulnerable state she saw them in as she finished her muffin and started to stand up that she didn't regard her half full bottle of orange juice and the fact that the lid wasn't on and the fact that it was about to fall off of the table, being propelled forward by the bag she was dragging off of the counter. By the time she came to her senses, it was too late. The orange juice spilled all over her white shirt, instantly making her feel sticky and look as if someone had thrown up on her chest (and like she had been the one throwing up). She inwardly screeched and searched for something to dry it off with, ending up using a dry crumpled napkin that did absolutely nothing to diffuse the stickiness and barf-esque look. Her heart started racing as she contemplated what to do. She tried to analyze her options: