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“No, I don’t know how it is,” Elena said firmly, “and I don't actually care how it is. You hired me to do a job. I did it. On time and under budget, and I deserve to get paid.”
“I know, and I’ll pay you. Just give me a couple of weeks.”
“Weeks?” Elena all but shrieked. “Weeks?”
“Geez,” Mitcham wheezed, “you don’t need to holler.”
Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to keep her anger in check. She tried again, this time employing a tone that her mother used to use when she and her sister were young and wouldn’t listen.
“Mitcham,” Elena implored softly, “I’m a freelancer. I live pay-check to pay-check. If you don’t pay me now, then I can’t make my rent, not to mention food and basic expenses. I’m counting on that money to keep me afloat till next month. For God’s sake Mitcham – don’t make me beg for my own money.”
“Aw, there’s no need to beg,” he said uncomfortably. “I’ll get you your money.”
“When?” Elena pressed.
“As soon as I can,” he said evasively.
“When will that be?” Elena asked in rising fury.
There seemed to be some sudden static on the other end of the line, but Elena was not fooled. She knew that Mitcham was the one causing it.
“Mitcham,” she said warningly, but he cut her off.
“… you know the line is bad eh, doll?”
“No it isn’t –
“… I’ll catch you later, doll.”
“Don’t call me doll!” Elena yelled at her phone.
The line was already dead. She wanted to throw her phone onto the road, as though in the act of doing so she could transfer some pain onto Mitcham Mosey. She resisted the urge and dropped it back into her coat pocket.
“Problem?” a voice behind her asked.
Elena turned to face Neal, who stood there in a long black coat that both looked and smelled expensive. His smile was somewhat sympathetic, but his eyes looked deeply unconcerned. Elena didn’t care, she wasn’t looking for sympathy or concern. She was just looking to be distracted. She gazed up at Neal and decided that his face was perfect for exactly that.
“No problem,” she said bitterly, “just my life. Let’s go somewhere where they sell unhealthy food.”
They decided not to take a cab, to just walk around the city, until something good jumped out at them. Neal whistled along tunelessly, not attempting conversation, not thinking too deeply about anything, but he had the luxury of not having to think too hard about anything. Elena was not so lucky. Her mind was full of unpaid bills, unpaid rent, and the overwhelming feeling that she had failed in life.
They walked almost eight blocks before they found a street cart selling greasy chicken burgers, and in those eight blocks, Neal had planned his next week to include four different parties, a couple of different women and a whole lot of spare time reserved for video games, table tennis and sleeping in.
Since leaving his last job, he had decided to take a few weeks off before attempting another job. He thought perhaps he would try bartending instead of waiting tables. Drunk people, he rationalized, were much better company than sober ones.
In the meantime, Elena was planning her week too. She had already put an ad in the papers in an attempt to bring in new customers. She wondered if she could afford a second ad so that she could reach more people. If all else failed, she would just have to swallow her pride and hand out flyers on sidewalks. She did have a potential job on the horizon, but she knew she couldn’t count money until it was firmly in her hands. Mitcham had proved that to her.
Both Elena and Neal were completely unaware of one another as they walked down the street. When they reached the burger stand, they ordered, Elena insisted on paying for hers and then they walked to a nearby bench and sat down to their four-dollar meal. Once the edge had been taken off their hunger, Neal turned to her.
“You go to many of those parties?” he asked.
“No,” Elena replied.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“No.”
Neal raised his eyebrows but made another attempt at conversation.
