Ana stood outside of the tallest skyscraper in midtown east, a turgid tribute to the rapidly expanding cat litter company which it housed. Two enormous sculptures flanked its awesome girth. They were round and brown, like cat litter. But cat litter was the last thing on Ana's mind as she whispered desperately into the phone, "Don't leave me Stephen."
"I have to babe," a male voice crackled back.
"But why," wailed Ana, "what's wrong with me?"
"It's not you," said Stephen, "It's Miranda. She's hot. She's got huge…." Ana hung up.
Or rather, the phone slipped from her hands and shattered on the hot concrete, just like her heart. She imagined Stephen, arms bulging around Miranda - the busty blonde waitress who worked at the Applebee's he ate at every Friday night – as they locked in a passionate embrace.
"I want to be blonde," said Ana. She picked up a lock of her own hair, a horrible auburn curtain of smooth glistening locks. A tear slipped from her fiery emerald eyes. Ana wasn't just crying because she wasn't blonde. In addition to her horribly long and slender legs, Ana had a pair of tiny – small for a winter melon large for a grapefruit – breasts.
Experimentally, Ana cupped those breasts, eyeing herself in a nearby restaurant window. Just as she was imagining what they would look like after plastic surgery – maybe two to three cup sizes larger – a man ran right into her.
"Hey," Ana started to say, but the word died on her lips as she rested her eyes on an incredibly tall, obviously virile older man in a dark gray suit. He didn't swell with muscles like Stephen. No, this man's muscles rippled with a dark and potent undulation. Ana had a sudden vision of him tearing off his obviously Italian suit and racing buck naked down the concrete jungle of Manhattan like a wild, raging leopard in pursuit of prey. Her.
Ana swayed. She bumped right into his hard - so hard! – chest. He didn't make a sound. She looked up. His muscular lips were twisted in a wry, amused smile.
His eyes were chocolate brown, like cat litter. Cat litter! She was late to her interview. Ana gasped – the man still had not said anything – and pausing only to cast one long lingering glance back over her shoulder, sped into the tower that was known everywhere as the pulsing center of the cat litter industry.
….
Ana couldn't remember the position she was interviewing for. She sat in a boardroom decorated with posters of various types of cat litter. Her favorite was clay-based, non-clumping. Clumping was gross. She wondered if a dog would be able to pee on cat litter. She fiddled with the range of multicolored pencils she brought to every interview. At least she came prepared.
She frowned as she remembered that she had forgotten to print out a copy of her resume, or wear a suit. No matter. She tore down a poster and folded it so it was the size of a large resume. She started to write down some of her qualifications. Even though she was klutzy, she was also very resourceful.
She was in the middle of writing "very good at folding" when the door slammed open. Her neck tingled, like a lamb sensing a wolf, like a deer sensing a lion, like a fly sensing the faint woosh of a fly swatter. It was the man.
His suit was a different color, a deep magenta. That was odd. Did he change into a new suit every time he felt a new emotion? Like a mood ring? She felt sure that his emotions must be deep, dark, brooding.
"Why should I make you my executive assistant?" he asked. His voice reverberated from his manly throat in a growl that made her quiver with its every vibration. She immediately forgot what he said.
"I fired my last executive assistant when she got fat," he said. "I gave her a week to lose weight. When she came back she was even fatter! She used to be so hot," he continued wistfully. Ana's back stiffened.
"Was she blonde?" asked Ana. The man stopped talking, staring at her in shock.
"Yes," he admitted.
"I bet all your other executive assistants were blonde too!" Ana shook with barely suppressed rage. He crossed the room with just two gazelle like strides and gazed down at her, respect dawning in his eyes.
"You are very perceptive," he said. Ana gazed down at her hands.
"I'm not blonde," she whispered. She looked up. Their eyes locked. Ana knew instinctively that whoever blinked first would lose, but his eyelids were just as muscular as the dark planes of his cheeks. Still without blinking, he blew at a gentle puff of air across her cheek. Some spit flew into her eye. It watered. She blinked rapidly.
"See you next Monday," he whispered. Then, before she could respond he left. She collapsed on top of her cat litter poster, her body spent from the coursing emotions raging inside her.
….
An hour later, Ana emerged still clutching the poster and full of questions about this dark and mysterious man. How did his suit change color? Why was he hiring secretaries? When he said that he'd see her on Monday, which Monday was he talking about?
Something wet dribbled onto her ankle. Startled, Ana looked down and saw a tiny brown dog, shaped like a hot water bottle. It started to lick down her foot, panting. Picking it up, Ana stared into chocolate brown eyes. She realized she was holding the tiniest Chihuahua she'd ever seen. Although her apartment didn't allow pets, Ana realized she had to keep it. But first, it needed a name.
"Fergie," she said. She was pretty sure it was a girl.