Boy meets girl, girl falls in love, blah-blah-blah.
Let me be clear with you from the beginning. This is not that kind of story.
My name is Cait, and I live in the great city of New York. Okay, so maybe I've only lived here for a week and a half...
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"Cait?" My roommate Valerie shook my shoulder, oblivious to the earbuds hidden under my hair, and startled me out of my zen moment. "Cait! Snap out of it!"
I tugged out an earbud, opening my eyes, and turned to face her, "What's up?"
She groaned, rolling her eyes, and tossed a wadded up green apron at me, "We're gonna be late to work. C'mon."
Ugh. Work. Who likes it? Not me, that's who.
I'm Cait. I'm twenty years old, and I'm a college dropout. I'm also a barista at the Starbucks up the street, and I'm perpetually late.
Like now.
Val finished braiding her dark brown hair, tying it off at the end, and slung her purse over her shoulder. She's gorgeous, the kind of girl who puts just enough effort in her appearance to look polished without looking overdone, and she had a few delicate tattoos sprinkling her dark skin behind her ear. Today, she was completely ready for work - aside from her apron - and tapping her foot impatiently.
We weren't stupid enough to wear our aprons on the bus to work, and we were blessed with the new wardrobe policy which meant we could wear some colors beyond the traditional (aka monotonous) all black, white, and khaki.
Yay for small victories.
Since we worked together at the same Starbucks, we often worked at the same time, which meant Val would try to help me not get fired. I doubt I would've lasted this long without her, if I'm completely honest.
I pulled off my headphones and dropped them on the table next to my purse, and circled the couch to grab a navy blue v-neck to swap with my schlubby black "Keep Austin Weird" t-shirt. After I brushed it free of wrinkles, I ran a hand through my tangled black curls and twisted them up in a haphazard bun on the top of my head while slipping on my shoes.
"Your shoes don't match," Val said, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms in front of her chest.
Dammit. I'd managed to slip on one of my worn black leather oxfords along with a very bright and very ugly red canvas slip-on from Walmart. (They were $7, in my defense.) Kicking off the red shoe, I grabbed the other black one and tugged it on before grabbing my phone and keys. I got one of those phone cases that doubles as a wallet a few months ago, because I hated carrying a purse in the city, and now I was able to keep my debit card, MetroCard, and ID all in one place...without worrying about losing them.
The fact is, I never lost my phone. Ever. I mean, sure, I temporarily couldn't find it in the couch a few times, and...okay, Val will tell you that I misplace it around our apartment at least three times a week, but I never lose lose it. There's a difference.
My phone is my lifeline, but not in the way you would think. I'm not a textaholic, and I don't twip or tweet or whatever that is. Social media wasn't my jam (except Instagram, because duh), but I am definitely a Spotify-addict. Music is everything to me, and I spend at least half of my day with those tiny earbuds jammed into my head. I'm not gonna lie - I'm almost jealous of people with cochlear implants who can have music streamed via bluetooth into their heads through the implant because that sounds way more convenient to me.
