When writing this, I initially thought I would turn this into a larger project (like a book), but for now, it’s just scraps of an idea.
The sticky summer air greets me, as I swing open my apartment door. My heels click against the New York City pavement. June heat permeates my new, pressed cotton shirt. I pray my outfit is resilient enough for the two and a half-hour commute to north Westchester County.
Two subway rides, one Metro North train ride, and a taxi ride later, I arrive at the office. I swing my legs out of the car door, and damp air grazes my highlighted hair. I roll off a black hair tie from my left wrist and twist it four times around the top half of my hair. Glazed green grass surrounds the campus. It’s a stark contrast to the sea of gray buildings back home in Manhattan. I hear the familiar click of my heels again, as automatic doors slide open. Cool, dry air-conditioned air seeps in from the lobby.
[stuff]
[Here comes the meet-cute:]
I had just come from the restroom. I was always too impatient to wait for hand dryers to dry my hands all the way, so they were still a little wet. I make a wrong turn from the restroom and end up taking the long way back to my cubicle. I walk toward the windows and plan to follow them all the way back to my desk. Before I could get there, someone starts to intercept me. Sun pours into the windows and onto him. The morning sun illuminates his well-dressed figure as he approaches me.
Just as the Earth dances around the sun to compose a year, my thoughts dance around my brain to compose myself.
No fucking way. This is probably him. It can’t be him. He’s too good looking. Oh my gosh, my hands. They’re wet. I’m going to have to shake his hand. No, no, no, no, no. Hurry, casually air dry them before he gets to you. Use your skirt if you have to. He’s six strides away. Okay, he’s opening his mouth to say something. I take a deep breath.
“Hi, you must be Mia. I’m Michael Nguyen,” he says. He extends his hand for the inevitable handshake. Mildly satisfied with how well I have dried my hands, I reach for his right hand with my own.
“Michael Nguyen. Am I saying it right?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t hear the shakiness in my voice.
“Yes, that’s perfect,” he affirms. “Hey, I’m looking for Sara Chapman. I think she’s on this floor. Do you know where cube ninety north is?”
“Um, I don’t know who Sara Chapman is. Ninety north? I think it’s that way.” I turn around and point. The sunlight warms the right side of my face.
“Okay, great. See you around.”
“Yep, see you,” I smile and nod.