“I’m such a mess right now.”
“You’re too sexy to be a mess.”
I mentally roll my eyes. You’re a beautiful mess was a much better line, dude. “I’m so embarrassed. It’s been one hell of a day and I get a little flustered around attractive men. Oh—” I bring my hand to my face and right on cue, my cheeks flush.
He chuckles and moves in. I rub my hands up and down my arms, shivering. Blue Suit takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, smoothing it out just so he has a reason to touch me.
“You’re such a gentleman,” I coo, pulling the jacket around my slender body. I can feel his wallet press into my side, and it only takes another few minutes of small talk for me to reach inside and pull out his cash. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but I always get a little rush. I’m right there literally in front of him, picking his pocket under his nose. I’ve yet to be caught, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
I fold the bills up in my hand and reach for my phone with my other. Sandwiching the money between my palm and my phone, I tell him I need to use the bathroom. I leave his suit jacket hanging on the back of the bar stool and slip right out of the bar, through the lobby of the Four Seasons and fall into step with the fast-paced Chicago foot traffic.* * *
“This’ll cover what insurance doesn’t.” I hand over crisp one-hundred dollar bills, silently cursing the woman behind the counter. She holds each bill up to the light, making sure they’re real and proceeds to ring me up.
“You need to confirm the address for delivery.” She slides the paperwork to me, and I can feel her judgment digging into me like a knife hot out of the fire. I’m still in my strappy Valentino dress, still showing more cleavage than your average street-corner hooker, and still have mascara smeared across my cheeks. I wiped it up the best I could, but I really don’t give a damn right now. I changed out of my heels for two reasons: I’m down to one pair of designer shoes and they’re not the most comfortable to be trekking along the south side of Chicago in.
I’m now wearing a pair of worn-out Nikes and have twisted my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. I had to hurry to get to the medical supply store in time to put in the order and have it delivered with tomorrow’s shipment.
I’ve had this wheelchair on hold for weeks now, and after arguing with insurance for days on end, I knew it was either make my father suffer in his current ill-fitting chair that pinches his thighs and causes sores on his lower back, or do whatever I can to get the money to get him this new one before the sores open up and turned into pressure ulcers. Again. We’ve been down this road before and it almost ended his life. The sores get infected and he’s too old and too weak to fight off another infection. It would take me weeks if not months to earn enough from my waitressing job to cover this expensive as fuck wheelchair.
I confirm everything, making double sure the wheelchair will get delivered to the nursing home and then the right patient tomorrow afternoon. The cashier throws out a catty “well you could be there if you’re so worried” that I respond with a glare and a roll of my eyes. I don’t have time for her shit.
The wind picks up, carrying a cool fall breeze with it. It’s the end of September and it’s been unseasonably warm all week. Not that I’m complaining though. The lake-effect snow will be here before we know it, and I’ll be trudging through it to work and back.
But today, though it’s nice enough out to walk, I have enough leftover cash from Blue Suit to take public transportation and buy myself something for lunch. I put on my headphones and sit at the back of the bus, ignoring the world around me.
I get off a block away from the nursing home, intent on grabbing a taco from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. My stomach grumbles and the last remaining twenty is burning a hole in my pocket. I round the corner a little too fast and almost step on a homeless woman sitting close to the side of a building. Her eyes are red and glossed over, but not because she’s high. It’s because she’s been crying.
A sleeping toddler is tucked under her arm, wearing dirty clothes. They’re both in desperate need of a bath, and suddenly tacos seem irrelevant. I come to a stop, digging the twenty out of my purse.