Angelica looked like a nearsighted lampshade, and she knew it. She didn't have the time to go out and actually shop for the right outfit, so she had to settle for the least brides-maidy thing in her closet. The dress she chose was Eggplant with a sweeping full skirt that was meant to be supported by a hooped petticoat. The sleeves were off the shoulder, white and 'poofy' - the best word in the English lexicon to describe their shape. She somehow managed to beat the sleeves into what passed for submission, but it hadn't been easy. She couldn't help it that her first turn as a bridesmaid was three months after the Royal Wedding. "Oh well," she thought as she looked at herself, "maybe I can pass it off as SoHo Eighties retro-chic." It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't been cursed to wear her glasses, but forty-eight hours straight without removing her contacts had finally taken their toll. Her eyes needed a rest, she needed a rest, but she knew that wasn't going to happen soon.

She was tired, but at least it was because she was working more hours and getting paid for them. She'd also gotten a promotion. True, it was out of necessity for the company, but she liked to think that her promotion to Senior Copywriter had at least a little bit to do with her talent. And the increase in salary was a welcomed blessing; Hyperbole was at the vet's again. It especially for that reason that she didn't want to go to D.C. "It's a cat," the senior partner said when she told her of her concern. "My God; how long have you had that thing, anyway?" When Angelica couldn't respond out of shock to her boss's insensitivity, she made things worse by saying, "what's the matter, Fitipaldi? That cat of yours got your tongue?" Her boss took a minute to laugh at her lame excuse for humor. "She's a cat, she's got nine lives. We, unfortunately, only have one shot for landing this account. So, go down to D.C. and do whatever it is you need to do to convince these stupid fucks you can write copy that will convince people to actually go to an arts center built in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. Take the rest of the afternoon and get ready," her boss said as she left. She looked at Angelica as though she were evaluating a flawed blueline. "Just in case it might take a while."

Angelica took the extra time off not to scour Midtown for the latest in formal eveningwear, but to go to the vet's to check on Hyperbole. She did not look well at all, and Angelica could tell by the Vet's face he was trying to find a way to tell her.

"So, Hyperbole's thirteen years young, you say?" Angelica nodded, trying almost unsuccessfully to keep from crying.

"I can tell she's lived a long and happy life and was loved very much.."

"Is, Dr. Foster; she is loved very much."

"Yes, of course."

"You have my cel number," Angelica continued, and I'll be staying at the Mayflower Hotel in D.C. Please...."

"Don't worry, Ms. Fitipaldi," the doctor replied gently, "should anything happen at all, we will call you." Angelica gently picked up her beloved pet. "Momma's got to leave for a little bit, Hy," she whispered as she stroked her cat. "But if you promise not to croak on her, you'll be drinking cream out of Waterford crystal."

Had she not had to go back to her apartment to get her journal, she would have made the Amtrak to D.C. in plenty of time. She ended up being the last person on the train, jamming her foot and overnight bag in the door as it closed. Her successful attempt to board the train delayed it because her action caused a malfunction in the door mechanism. Angelica crouched down low in her seat as the rest of the passengers spit nails into their cel phones as they complained about the delay. The train left Pen Station, New York thirty minutes behind schedule.

The Amtrak Acela made up for lost time, and arrived in Washington, D.C. five minutes ahead of schedule. Angelica wanted to walk, so she decided to take the subway to the hotel. Not being able to see very well in her glasses, Angelica read the wrong train schedule, and got on the wrong car.

When she ended up in Georgetown, she wished she had taken a cab.

Angelica followed her instincts the next time and took a cab from Georgetown to the hotel. She barely had time to shower and change before she had to hail another cab to the arts center. When she told the cabbie where she needed to go, she could see the hesitation in his face. "Oh great," she thought to herself. "Just how bad is this neighborhood?"

The cab pulled up to the front doors of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Cultural Center for the Arts and pointed across the street. "The police substation's over there, m'am," he said as she got out of the cab. "Not that I think you'll need it, but you never know."

The Roosevelt Center as it was called was a towering edifice of glass, marble, brass and steel. The architects and the community members involved with the project designed the building five years earlier as the cornerstone of a neighborhood revitalization and renaissance. The building was beautiful, the building was breathtaking, and as she sat in a pitch meeting with the V.P. of Marketing, Angelica wondered how long before it would be turned into a bowling alley.

As she sat in the meeting with the client, Angelica was amazed at the clarity with which she conducted the pitch. She took a moment to stand outside of herself, splitting her psyche into two parts. There was Angelica, the Senior Copywriter-slash-account executive pitching "the Roosevelt Renaissance" campaign to the client, and there was Angelica, worried parent of the most precious living thing in her life - her cat, Hyperbole. Angelica was surprised that she successfully completed the pitch under the circumstances, and she was equally surprised when her client ate it up with a silver spoon. They liked the idea of the "Roosevelt Renaissance," the campaign designed to position the FDR Cultural Center for the Arts as the lynchpin of a neighborhood re-birth. It was the campaign, the client believed, that would catapult the cultural center into national prominence and revitalize the neighborhood. It was the plan that would make people old enough to remember the race riots and neighborhood burnings of the late Sixties forget the turbulence of the times and shell out New York prices to see art being made in metro D.C. Angelica felt sorry for the client; to hear them tell it, this pile of dreck did everything short of making the perfect souffle.

When the meeting ended earlier than expected, Angelica hoped that she could bow out of attending the Opera; she had it all planned. When she opened her mouth to feign a migraine, the V.P. of Marketing invited her to the on-site bar for a celebratory drink. When the client ordered a glass of red wine, Angelica couldn't help but feel a sense of impending doom. Angelica got a glass of safe, colorless white wine, and thought the danger had passed until she managed somehow to knock the white wine on the client's beige evening gown, and the red wine directly into her own lap. Angelica did not want to know how close that bone-headed move took her to loosing the account, but apparently the client had enough pre-meeting cocktails not to care. When she was certain she still had the account, she asked the bartender for the ladies' room; she didn't want to chance opening her mouth to the client, and screwing things up yet again.

Angelica left the bar and walked through the lobby. As she made her way past the shining brass theater doors, she took stock of her situation and decided one thing: she was an idiot. "Just who in the hell am I trying to fool?" she thought as she caught her image in every passing door. She looked like a clown; a lump in a circus dress with an embarrassing wet stain in an embarrassing spot. She knew what she looked like, she knew who she was. She didn't need the distorted images to tell her, but the huge brass doors showed her the person she truly thought she was as cruel reinforcement; Angelica the stupid; Angelica the dolt; Angelica the ugly; Angelica the klutz. She stared at her reflection in these doors as she passed, she stared at them so hard that she didn't notice the step that led down to the lower level and to the ladies room.

It wasn't until she saw her own foot extended high in the air in front of her that she realized she was going to fall.

Angelica fell forward as though someone had stood behind her and pulled the rug out from under her feet. Although the spill was only a matter of seconds, Angelica felt herself flying through the air in supper-slo-mo-speed. It was as though her whole miserable life was a bad, "B" rate movie, and someone somewhere was slowing the frames for dramatic effect. She hit the floor hard, face first, driving her glasses painfully into her face and into the bridge of her nose. For what seemed like an eternity, she lay on the floor, the spindly nubs of carpeting pressing into her cheeks. Angelica wanted to make herself smaller than she already felt at that minute, and even ground her face into the carpet, thinking that if she pressed hard enough, she could push her way to China. It was when she was at her lowest ebb that she heard the voice of her savior.

"Are you alright, Miss?" he said

Angelica didn't move; she didn't want to. She was certain everyone in Washington, D.C. had gathered around her, just waiting for her to turn over so they could point and laugh at her expense.

"Should I get a doctor, Miss?" he asked.

Angelica screwed up her courage, and slowly turned over. She cautiously brought her hands down to her sides, half expecting her dress to be up somewhere around her chest. When she thankfully discovered it wasn't, she heard his voice again.

"Here; why don't I give you a hand?"

Angelica's eyes began at his patent-leather dress slippers, and worked their way up his long legs. They traveled to his cummerbund, counted each of the Onyx shirt studs, and examined the knot in his black tie. They rested on his soulful, Hazel eyes, and as they did, Angelica had an epiphany; Angelica reached a startling realization.

She, Angelica Lisette Fittipaldi, stared into the face of Adonis.

This man, her savior, her newest revelation reached down from on high into the morass of her life and took her hand. As he lifted her up, she could feel herself soaring as if on wings. Her feet finally touched earth, and she stared at him, unable to utter a single word.

"You took a pretty hard spill there, Miss..."

"Uh...." Angelica grunted.

"You ok?"

"Uh-huh," Angelica replied.

"The carpet is kind of slick; I almost took a spill when I walked in."

She finally spoke, thankfully remembering after her initial shock that she had more than a rudimentary command of her mother tongue. "I...Think I'll be...Alright. Thank you, mister.." Her shining knight extended his hand. "Mulder; Fox Mulder." Angelica gingerly took his hand, and shook it.

"Angelica Fitipaldi; traveling klutz..."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Ms. Fitipaldi; it could have happened to anyone."

"You're too kind," Angelica demurred. "Thank you."

The lobby lights began to flicker, and the bells began to chime for the start of the first act. "I think that's our cue," her savior replied. "Thank you again, Mr. Mulder," Angelica replied. He smiled at her, and Angelica thought the brilliance of that smile was enough to illuminate the darkest of rooms. "Glad I could help; enjoy the show."

She stood there and watched him depart, and had her face not hurt, she would have thought it was all a dream. It took a while for her to notice the vibration coming from her evening bag, and another second for her to realize it was her cel phone. She took out her phone, and read the screen.

"Lex Ave Vet" was all it said.

It was at that moment that the cracked bridge of her glasses separated, and her unwanted eyewear fell to the ground.