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She awoke, but kept her eyes closed, she scrunched her eyelids and
furrowed her brow in a futile attempt to alleviate the pain in her head. She
turned over in bed and tried to fall back asleep. She felt nauseous, and it
was not until she had thrown up, eaten some breakfast and taken a couple of
painkillers that she could think clearly. She remembered leaving the club
last night and realizing that the buses weren't running and that she didn't
have enough money for a cab. This was all a little fuzzy, but she also
remembered walking through Chinatown and what a stupid idea that was. She
thought she remembered something else, but, no, it was too strange. She
decided that the last thing she remembered must have been a dream. There were
no such things as "happiness cookies." What a strange dream it had
been, though. She thought maybe she should write it down, because of its
incredible nature, but quickly decided that recording one's dreams was an
occupation meant for new-agers and bored teenagers and that she had better
things to do with her life. So she climbed into bed and went back to
sleep.
On Monday she went to work more disillusioned than ever and, although her
hangover had subsided, she felt a slight nausea of discontent. She did her
copy-editing without pleasure, took her lunch break and tried to think of
anything distant and unrelated to newspapers. When her lunch hour had passed,
she returned to her cubicle, only to find her path blocked by the ungainly
mass of Jeffrey Brothwell.
"Hey," he said in the confident way that he always said 'hey,'
which sounded as though he thought she would be talking to him of her own
free will not simply because he was addressing her.
"Hi, Mr. Brothwell," she responded, only somewhat coldly.
"Hey, hey, what is this Mr. Brothwell stuff? Call me Jeff."
"Alright, Jeff," she said, barely trying to mask her annoyance,
"Can I get by please? I have work to do."
"Whoa, no need to be pushy. I just have to ask you one thing before
I let you by," he said in what seemed to be his idea of playful, flirty
tone, "How would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?"
She didn't know what to say. Of course she didn't want to spend more than
a few seconds talking to him, but she also didn't want to make their working
environment awkward by refusing him. Then there was the fact that he was a
big-shot reporter and could probably make or break her career with a snap
of his fingers. "Well
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