Pamela glanced at the clock. Half past seven. She sighed, wiped the beads of perspiration off her forehead and proceeded to gather the crumbs on the table. Stuffing loose change into her already-full pocket of straws, she looked out the window before closing the shutters. Traffic was horrid that evening. Not for waiting in- for dodging. She wouldn't be getting a car anytime soon, she reminded herself as she frowned at her reflection in the glass. Nope. Not anytime soon.

Finally, she finished cleaning up. Without bothering to remove her ketchup-stained apron, she grabbed her slingbag and dashed out the door.

All she wanted was to get home, take a nice, warm bath, turn on the radio, tuck into bed and get some sleep after a long, hard day at work. Unfortunately, home was two miles away. On foot. Approximately. Her feet were already aching from standing for ten hours straight. She hoped the drivers would be in a better mood that evening, since it was already Thursday. No such luck. Vehicles were honking madly, racing each other down the streets, and failing to stop for pedestrians. When will they ever install traffic lights? Pamela thought as she barely managed to avoid a zooming taxi. Finally, after fifteen full minutes of crossing roads, she reached the paved path towards her little apartment. The walk took another half hour.

The first thing that greeted her at the door and prevented her from entering was Mr Buckins' frowning face. Pamela looked at him pleadingly.

"The day after tomorrow. I promise," she begged.

"You said that two days ago."

"I mean it this time. I'm completely sure. You will have it all by Saturday."

Mr Buckins didn't budge. He stared at her with his beady eyes, and she looked back at him innocently, fearfully, waiting for an answer. But he didn't answer, which was a good sign, so she slipped past him and got through the doorway. He was still glaring at her as she started up the stairs.

"That or you're out, hear me?"

Pamela managed a timid 'yes' before closing her door behind her. At least for now it was still her door. Until Saturday, at least.

She had lied. She knew she wouldn't get her pay by then. Payday was twelve days away. She was already making plans for which part of the street she should sleep in on Saturday night. A nice wooden bench in Sommer Park wouldn't be too bad, would it?

As she was contemplating whether or not her grandmother's old scarf would be enough to keep her warm outside, she thought she heard a piano key. Or two. She put her bag aside and looked out the window. No one in the opposite apartments was playing any pianos.

Wait, why did she even bother to check? No one in the opposite apartments could even afford a piano.

She decided it had to be her lack of sleep. It was always her lack of sleep. Blame everything on her lack of sleep. Well, at least the next day was Friday, she could sleep in. Somehow that thought didn't lift her spirits any higher.

Pamela pulled open the shower curtains with her elbow, undid her coppery locks with one hand and turned on the radio to the maximum volume with the other. Then with her leg, she shut the bathroom door. She sighed. Privacy and peace at last. She had been sighing a lot lately. A lot for someone barely twenty-five.

Above the shower she could hear a popular love song playing on the radio. The melody was beautiful, but this time it was the lyrics that got through to her. It painted an unrealistic dream of finding true love and never being alone. She was so hooked onto that image that she didn't notice the hotness of the tears that had welled up in her eyes, or when they disappeared into the shower with the rest of the water.

It only came back to her when she thought about it again that night in bed, when she realised that the dream was not meant for her. One hundred percent impossible, in fact. But could it be- even remotely probable- that her reality was just an illusion? That another life- a better life- was waiting for her somewhere? That there was someone out there in the universe who actually cared for her? Maybe even loved her?

No, no, no, and NO. Go to sleep, Pamela, and stop dreaming. No more of such fairytale fantasies. I thought you knew better than that.