"But I can't understand this," I spoke into the receiver of the public telephone, the hustle and bustle of Paris surrounding me. "Why is it that there is no way I can get this job?"

Nesta, my dearest friend in the world, is contradicting my ability to actively pursue this job. This has been going on for a week, ever since I interviewed at Runway. She will say that the French are snobs to the English, and while there are no written rules that enable them to turn me down based on appearance alone, they will still sneer behind my back for the duration of my (short) time there. In my rebuttal, I will tell her that I am more than capable of doing the job. She will then tell me that I'm not, I will reply with a Yes, I am, and we will ping pong back and forth until I run out of change, and ergo, I must hang up.

"You can't get this job because they will hate you because you buy all your clothes at Oxfam, because they are cheap, and they will know this and drive you out of the damn office! Besides, you don't want to work in fashion. You hate fashion, with a passion." I can hear her writing that down. Nesta is a poet. She is constantly writing anything she says down, because she thinks she is going to win a Pulitzer by the time she is thirty. In truth, she couldn't win a Pulitzer by the time she was eighty.

"Nesta, they can't throw me to the wolves based on pip pip pip."

"Huh?"

"I said, they can't turn me down just because I pip pip"

"Miranda, I can't hear you."

"Nesta, the pips are going. Pip pip." I reach into my purse and rummage around in the bottom. As luck would have it, there is no change. "Nest, doll, I haven't anymore pip pip pip pip have to hang pip call you pip pip bye." I hang up, and hear the long line behind me sigh with relief.

The street behind me is in dead gridlock. I can nearly smell the dinner that has so long been denied me, and will obviously have to wait a little longer. I take a cigarette out of my purse, light up, and stand under the streetlight, taking long drags. The smoke warms my frigid lungs, and I am reminded once again to buy nicotine patches. Again.

The traffic is moving, prompting me to throw down my cigarette and crush it beneath my foot. I hail down a taxi cab, bidding it to drive me to my miniscule apartment. For a mere three weeks of my prospective salary, I can have an absolute lunatic cart me to a place it would take the same amount of time to walk. The logic behind this completely escapes me. Pigeons fly away, shouting their insults; pedestrians grab their children and throw themselves out of the way of the missile that is the cab. I should have taken the Underground.

Finally, we approach my building. Leaning to one side, the paint is chipped, and I can see my upstairs neighbors having a slap fight right in front of the window. Based on this, I know I'm not getting more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The cab driver bids me pay him a third of my cab budget. I comply, with the screech of tires speeding away as thanks for his month's rent.

The stair railings shake from the force of Mr.-and- Mrs. Upstairs' fight. I struggle to find my keys while trying to listen to their relentless divorce in the making.

"And now I hear you are screwing the nanny? What the hell is wrong with you? And why is it I find this out from her? Is it too much to ask that I, your wife, am being cheated on by someone I hate? I want that goddamn divorce!" Each sentence is punctuated by either a slap or various forms of the phrase screw you.

"Well, you drove me to the nanny, honey! You are out shopping all day, and when I get home, I'm left starving because you can't even be bothered to order take away, let alone cook a meal. And at least the nanny actually cares about the kid that neither of us wanted!" Ouch.

"Lower your voice!" And with that, only muffled swears ensue.

The door to my apartment opens, and I peer into the dark, dank, depressing studio that has housed me for the past three months. A message awaits me on the phone. I stumble around the mounds of clothes lumped around the floor. Of course, given my luck, I manage to evade all the clothes, but trip over a table leg.

Beep. Pause. Beep. Pause.

"Alright, already." I get up to press the big flashing button and get answered by a random bill collector, but this time I'm surprised. A bright, cheery voice fills the room.

"Hi, Miranda! This is Allison Durno, from Runway. I'm just calling to tell you that you got the job! Isn't that exciting? I know it is. A million girls would kill for this job. I mean, literally. Okay, so we were wondering when you could start. We, of course, would prefer it if you could come in, let say, Tuesday, but we understand if you have some things you have to put in order. So, if you could call us back and tell us how soon you could start, we would really appreciate it! Okay, buh-bye." Click.