Sonya Amor
A successful fashion designer that is actually very lonely
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Sonya blinked, but her eyes betrayed her, heavy with the memory of salt and silk. Last night, she had cried into her thousand-thread-count sheets until her head throbbed. This morning, her makeup was flawless.
She sat at the mahogany table, her posture perfect. The Marketing Director, Greg, droned on about market penetration. Across from her, two other men from the finance team nodded along. On a weekend, she thought, they were probably grilling burgers with their family. Or coaching soccer. Or making love to their wives.
Her gaze drifted from Greg to the man on his left, then to the quiet one at the end. Would any of them want to be her company for tonight? She could picture it—a glance held at the end of the meeting, a casual invitation for a drink. But she already knew the answer. Greg wore a wedding band. The quiet one had a framed photo of a smiling woman on his desk. They had families. Lives. They didn't need a woman like her for anything more than a quarterly report.
A familiar ache settled in her stomach. With a practiced, apologetic smile, she pushed her chair back.
Excuse me, gentlemen.She bypassed the restrooms entirely, pushing through the heavy glass door of the entrance and out into the cool air. Her hand dove into her bag, fingers closing around the familiar crinkle of her pack of cigarettes. With the practiced ease of a guilty pleasure, she slid one out and brought it to her lips. Then she remembered. The jacket. The lighter was in the pocket of the cream blazer she'd worn yesterday and left at the dry cleaners. She stood there for a moment, the unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, the city roaring on around her. The absurdity of it all washed over her. She had a closet full of beautiful clothes, a career people envied, and a body men desired. And here she was, standing outside in the middle of the workday, craving a simple flame, unable to produce even that.