What's for Breakfast?

One: On My Bed

They say that a lady walking in stiletto heels means business, for the clicking sound exudes her power and confidence; however, when you drag your feet as I do, the clicking is more like a screeching, ominous symphony. It's not power nor confidence–it's the echo of misery and exhaustion.

Thankfully, I am alone in the hallway.

My phone keeps vibrating in my purse, and I let it ring, reluctant to face the world. Coming to a halt by the front door of our condominium unit, I lower my gaze, letting my long, brown locks cascade over my face. I silently scrutinize my reflection on the polished glass tiles, fingers on the doorknob. I take a few deep breaths and pretend to smile, only to notice that I am close to tears.

I remember how I was around three hours ago. I was way different from the girl I am looking at right now. I look sad. My eyelids feel extremely heavy and lifting my limbs is challenging. All I crave is sleep. To forget.

Well, I guess I am sad.

The outcome of today's events isn't new to me. Nevertheless, this thing happening over and over again will never give me immunity. Truthfully, the feeling of worthlessness I go through gets worse every time. Why did I expect this date to be different anyway? What was inside this stupid head of mine?

Fine. Allow me to elaborate: I just got rejected. Again. What aggravates me is that this time, I did everything I could to be attractive. I splurged on a new pair of red pumps and an expensive, black dress. I painted my nails burgundy and even used a hair straightener to style my wavy hair. Heck, I even stalked the guy on social media so that I'd know exactly which topics to bring up before I see him.

No, he didn't explicitly tell me he didn't like me, but he also didn't have to. The mere fact that he ended the date abruptly was enough. There will be no second date.

I grunt as the events of the night vividly unfurl in my memories.

"Sam, I'm really sorry. This is embarrassing, but I forgot that I have to finish some research," Mark told me without looking me in the eye. He fiddled with his sleeves and added, "I have to go."

"Oh, um, I see. It's okay. I also have to work on some projects anyway," I lied, glancing at my watch, my insides tangled into knots.

Two hours. It only took two hours for it all to crumble.

He asked for the bill. I offered to pay for my share, which he politely refused, then we walked out of the restaurant.

"Do you need a ride?" I offered, a last attempt to prolong the date. Pathetic, I know.

He looked down, toyed with his sleeves again, shoulders rigid. "No, I'll take the cab."

"Are you sure? Where are you going? I can probably drop you off."

He shook his head quietly. "I'm good."

He waved his hand, and a taxi parked in front of us. My shoulders fell in defeat.

"Bye, Sam."

"Yeah, sure. Bye. Thanks."

"Yeah... Thanks."

And then Mark left. That was it. The end.

He was my type. He worked as a journalist. He was funny and smart and he wore eyeglasses that made him look older despite his youthful features. But who cares what I thought? He blew me off after dinner. My preparation took longer than the date itself.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I growl as I open the door and then cross the threshold of our condominium unit number 1604. I emphasize "our" because I share this two-bedroom space with my older brother, Patrick. Flicking on the lights, the interior I had meticulously designed comes into view.