𝐌𝐬. 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧 | 𝖱𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽-𝖱

1 | Ms. Hamiltion

Vieux Carre Pizza

Shivers tickles her thick, hourglass frame, as her glove-covered hands clutch the outside lining of her coat; trapping it close, tightly. Though, saying it is freezing outside is an understatement, she couldn't help but think for some unknown reason that it wasn't from the wind. Almost trying to bulldoze her down every ten seconds. It was from this fast-food restaurant she is facing. It taste like a spirit, feels like the devil-sort of. Like voodoo. Well, it is New Orleans, after all.

Definitely a long way from home, where she is originally from; Cuba. Moving to Miami, Fl during her teenage stage wasn't as hard as her parents thought it would be. The two parents back in Cuba believed they were going to feel the wrath of a thirteen year old for sending her away, but never did. Since Lauren didn't have any friends, not even acquaintances, it didn't bother her that she would be leaving anything valuable behind; accept for her parents.

The milk-colored woman fled to New Orleans as quick as she could to escape the passing of her grandmother after her cremation. She decided that she wouldn't be able to stay where she built happy memories, only for them to be brought down by the doing of god himself. She don't think she can ever forgive him. In due time, she believes.

Now, she lives in an apartment with little money in her bank account that her grandmother left her. In order for her to survive and keep a roof over her head is for her to find a job. And standing there in the glacial cold, wimping out is not the way to do it. Not in this life.

The sole of her converse step with courage as she enters the restaurant, briefly eye-sighting someone at the cash register, punching in buttons. Whoever the person is, has their spiral curly hair cascading over their broad shoulders, covering most of their face as it cast down at the register. More steps, and the person actually looks up this time. Lauren doesn't know what it is, but she feel as if she had a momentarily heart attack on the spot.

"Hi," her soft and husky voice greets, then her index finger nervously pushes a few strands behind her ear full of rings. The other woman took notice, noting things to herself. "I am looking for a job," she stated more confidently and more determined. Her fingers ended up tangled together at the end of that sentence. Like a nerd presenting or more likely, showing off their indeed hard-working project.

"...are you?" the woman sensual voice ask, almost sending an invitation to the cuban's body.

"...uhh-yes, I am...I am," the confidence strangles her, as if it went down the wrong pipe, stretching out her throat. The cuban's hand went directly to her neck to try and soothe the forming knots, nonetheless, it still didn't help her. Hershey brown eyes never been so intimating until now, boring back into hers that lack melanin.

"Normani leave that girl alone," an motherly voice scolded from the back, appalling the younger girl.

"I'm not bothering her, ma'," the ebony woman breaks the eye contact afterwards, and drew in a long breath before releasing it. She went back to whatever she was doing. "She came barging in, so really, she is bothering me."

"I-I, that's not ex-exactly what I did," Lauren tries to explain, sputtering out her words. Out of her perip-heral vision, she catch the unknown woman; as Normani, holding in her snickers.

"What are you here for, baby?" she ask and the more she got closer, the more her southern accent became attentive. Her storytelling eyes beamed at the slightly quivering cuban, inching closer to the counter.