Writing Mr. Right by Alina Khawaja • Bewitched Bookworms
The short strands of my hair, previously carefully styled with a flat iron so they gently framed my cheekbones, now cling to my face in wet clumps. At least my mouth was spared; I don’t want to know what the combination of dirt and coffee tastes like.
“Damn it,” I hiss under my breath. I’m about a block away from my office building, and it’s way too far to go home and change. I pick up my pace, my heels clacking against the concrete. I swear each person I pass gives me the same grimace that says, Wow, sucks to be her.
Oh well. At least I’ll be behind a desk all day. I think getting splashed by a truck is actually better than running into street performers. Brooklyn, thankfully, doesn’t have its own version of the Naked Cowboy to terrorize tourists and commuters alike like in Times Square, so I can get to my office in relative peace.
I finally reach the building at the end of the street. Shivers rack my body as I pull the door open. I ignore the strange glances from the receptionist and head straight for the elevator. While inside it, I try my best to squeeze the water out of my hair, which isn’t easy because I have a bob cut and the ends fall to just below my chin. It’s already drying, the frizz adding a crunch to the consistency of the strands.
The elevator goes all the way up to the tenth floor, to the New Scope Law Office, where I’ve worked for the past six years. When the doors open, I carefully step out onto the sleek floors so I don’t slip in my wet heels. I tread cautiously, water still dripping from my body onto the floor. The last thing I need on top of everything else that’s happened this morning is to—
A shoulder bumps into mine as I round the corner, and it jostles the coffee in my hand. The hot liquid splashes onto my shirt, further staining my sweater and scalding the skin underneath. My arm rears back, a yelp caught in my windpipe at the stinging pain. I catch a glimpse of the person who ruined my outfit, but it’s one of the women who works in the doctor’s office next to ours. She doesn’t even bother to glance back as she makes it to the elevator and presses the button.
I huff, then examine the damage to my outfit. Blotches of brown leak through the material, and the scent of caffeine clinging to my skin is so strong it’s like I took a bath in a coffee maker, which I guess is better than smelling like a feral coyote, but there’s definitely no time to go home and get changed now.
Perfect. The one day I really need to look good, and I look like a drowned rat.
Excerpted from Writing Mr. Right by Alina Khawaja, Copyright © 2025 by Alina Khawaja Published by MIRA.
