Wake up.

Put on last night’s panties. You have to do laundry later or else. Make coffee and think about cigarettes. Menthols, in particular. Pet your dog at least seven times.

Remember fucking Ed from the other night. Consider texting him. Remember waking up next to Ed while his girlfriend made coffee. Think about her lips. Your hands on her inner thighs. Almost wet. Then, think about vampires. Is garlic really that bad?

Put on the black Halston dress. Cut the 50% off tag. Grab sensible flats. Wear glasses. Contacts are too much work.

In your head, imagine yourself as Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger. Beautiful, cruel, uncaring. Red lips. Think about Ed’s face and putting your cruel lips on the back of his neck. Wonder if Ed imagines fucking you when you’re not around.

Take your backpack. Contemplate the existential realities that are the MTA. Add time? Add value? Add time. Add time. Add time. The subway arrives late. Text the HR rep that you will be late.

57th Street is a weird place. Walk by a sports bar. People care entirely too much about tennis.

Make up a good excuse for the HR rep. Stalled train. Cops were called. She looks at you with sad eyes. Know this happens enough in the city for your lie to be believable.

Discuss ads. Spends and figures. Look at the editor’s blush pink acrylic nails. Think about Ed bending you over in a tight skirt. In this daydream, you forgot to wear panties. He likes it. In your mind, he fucks you on this very desk.

Pause when the editor says:

Tell me about yourself.

You want to say:

I am an assassin.

I turn into a wolf at night.
My brother is lost at sea.
I am a poet.

Instead, you say:

I am ambitious and thrive on quality teamwork.

Smile. The smile cost $6,000 and four years of braces. You smile so well. Men always tell you this.

The interview goes over time. It’s a good thing. They like you. They ask for creative assets. You forgot to ask about health insurance. Shrug.

You spot your old sugar daddy on the subway. He’s going to Queens. You to Brooklyn. Your outfit is perfect: flared dress, satin shoes, Chanel lipstick he likes. But, like most ironies: he has a girlfriend now. You will feel guilty if you stop to touch his arm. You want to ask for money.

Look for a cigarette. The G train isn’t all that bad. Text Ed.

“I got the job.”

Wait.

Stephanie Athena Valente is a copywriter. She is the author of Internet Girlfriend (Clash Books, 2022), Hotel Ghost, waiting for the end of the world, and Little Fang (Bottlecap Press 2015-2019). Her work has appeared in Hobart, Witch Craft Magazine, and Maudlin House. She lives in New York. More secrets can be found at @stephanie.athena and stephanievalente.com.