Be Professional

It had been one year plus and I still hadn’t found Mr. Orgasm.

One year, three months, and eleven days. But who’s counting?

There was nothing I didn’t do. I went back to that club so many times the bouncer started calling me by my first name. I tracked down the manager the slimy guy, kept touching my knee while I asked questions. I searched social media, dating apps, those weird facial recognition sites. I even considered hiring a private investigator but, you know. I'm Broke as hell.

Nothing.

The first and only person to make me come apart. And no one else could. Believe me, I’d tested that theory. A few rebounds. A couple “maybe this time” attempts. Some guys whose names I don’t remember and whose faces I wish I didn’t.

Nothing. Not even close.

It was him I wanted. And I couldn’t fucking find him.

“The rent’s due again.”

Sasha’s voice dragged me back to reality like nails on a chalkboard. I was on the couch, still in yesterday’s clothes, staring at a ceiling stain that kinda looked like a dick if you squinted.

“Well, the landlord can wait a week more. I’m in a tight spot,” I muttered, pulling a cushion over my face.

She sighed. That heavy, disappointed sigh that parents do. The one that says I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed. Worse than shouting, honestly.

“That’s what we said last time, Annie.”

I peeked out from under the cushion. She was standing there in her work clothes, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. The universal sign for bullshit detected.

“I already sold my plasma twice this month,” I moaned, throwing the cushion off. “I can’t sell it again. They’re gonna start charging me for the privilege.”

If I had to sell my plasma one more time, I would lose it. Literally. I’d be an empty husk, a ghost, wandering the streets with a needle mark and zero blood left. Here lies Annie. She died of rent.

“Did you get that job?” Sasha asked.

I froze.

“No… I…”

I actually forgot to apply.

The look on her face.

“You forgot.” Not a question.

“I—”

“You forgot to apply for the job that would pay our rent so we don’t get evicted?”

“Sasha, listen—”

“Annie, you can’t keep doing this!” Her voice cracked. “You can’t keep fucking doing this! We need the rent! Fucking hell, seriously!”

I sat up straight, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

She ran her hands through her hair, pacing. I’d seen Sasha angry before, she once threw a shoe at a guy who ghosted her friend, but this was different. This was tired angry. The worst kind.

“Look,” I said quickly, scrambling for anything. “Look, I saw an application. For a house sitter. Some rich person needs someone to watch their place. I’ll apply today. Right now. Phone’s right here—see? I’m doing it.”

She stopped pacing. Stared at me.

“And the rent?”

“I’ll ask my cousin for a loan. Just until I get paid.” I hated asking my cousin for anything. She still brought up that time I borrowed twenty bucks in 2019. But desperate times. “I’ll pay it back, I swear, Sasha. On my life. On my left tit. On whatever you want me to swear on.”

She didn’t laugh. That’s how I knew she was really stressed. Sasha always laughed at tit jokes.

“You have three days,” she said quietly. “That’s it. Three days, or we’re both sleeping in my car.”

She walked out. The door clicked shut.

I sat there, phone in hand, staring at that dick-shaped ceiling stain.

Three days.

Fuck.

I scrolled through the job listing. House sitter. Wealthy owner. Live-in optional. The Pay made my eyes water.

One year, three months, and eleven days of looking for a ghost.

And now I had three days to find a miracle.

I walked out of the door…

I would have sold my plasma again if I didn’t have anymore…

I didn’t have anything to pawn.

I applied online that night.

The listing was fancy. Like, fancy fancy. “Discerning homeowner seeks responsible individual for house-sitting position.” Discerning. Who talks like that? Rich people, that’s who.

I filled out every field. Name? Annie. Age? Old enough.

Experience? I breathed in air once. Kidding.

I put down “house sitting for friends” which was technically true if you counted that time I watched Sasha’s apartment for twenty minutes while she ran to the store.

Education? I stared at that box for a solid minute. Certified undergraduate, I typed.

Which was a fancy way of saying college dropout. But they didn’t need to know that.

References? Sasha. Obviously. I texted her: Using you as a referral. Say I’m great. Say I’m the best house sitter alive. Say I once fought a bear in your apartment.

She replied: you literally watched my plants die

THEY WERE SUICIDAL, I wrote back. NOT MY FAULT.

The application asked for a cover letter. A cover letter. For sitting in someone’s house.

I wrote: I am very clean. I do not steal. I will water your plants and they will LIVE. You will not regret this.

Hit submit.

Then I stared at my phone, willing it to say “you’re hired” immediately.

It did not.

**************************************

The next morning, I woke up to an email.

Interview today at 2 PM. Please arrive promptly. Dress code: professional.

Professional. Right. I had clothes that qualified as professional the same way I qualified as a “certified undergraduate.”

I spent the morning panicking. What did rich people wear? Suits? Dresses? Did I own anything without a stain? I borrowed a blazer from Sasha that smelled faintly of cigarettes and hope. Paired it with my least-ripped jeans. Close enough.

“I’ve got this,” I told my reflection. It looked skeptical.

“Fuck you,” I told my reflection. It looked slightly more convinced.

I walked outside ready to conquer the world.

And saw the neon pink paper taped to our door.

EVICTION NOTICE

Final warning. Rent overdue. Vacate within 72 hours.

My stomach dropped. Like, actually dropped. Like someone reached inside me and yanked everything down.

No. No no no no no.

Three days. Sasha said three days. This said seventy-two hours. Math wasn’t my strong suit but that felt like less.

I ripped it off the door and marched straight to the landlord’s office. I Didn’t even think. I just moved. Adrenaline and fury and pure fucking panic.

I burst through his door like I owned the place.

“What the hell is this?”

Mr. Henderson looked up from his desk. Mr Henderson is an old guy. Bald. He has a Permanent frown. He looks like someone sucked the joy out of him years ago and he’d been bitter about it ever since.

“Eviction notice,” he said flatly. “You’re behind on rent.”

“I know we’re behind on rent! But you can’t just, we’re students! You know we’re students, right?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you? Because your file says you dropped out eight months ago.”

I opened my mouth. then Closed it.

“Look,” I tried again, stepping closer. “It’s not fucking fair, okay? We’re gonna pay. We’re gonna pay this month. We just need a little more time. A week. Five days. Whatever. My interview is today for a job that’ll cover everything—”

“Not my problem.”

“Yes it is! It’s literally your problem because if you evict us you’ll have to find new tenants and clean the place and—”

“Get out.”

I froze. “What?”

He stood up. Not tall, but something about the way he did it made me step back. “You heard me. Get out of my office. You have seventy-two hours. After that, your stuff is on the street.”

“But—”

“OUT.”

My face burned. Like, actually burned. Hot and red and humiliated. I could feel it. My eyes stung and I refused to cry in front of this bald asshole.

I left.

Walked out. Didn’t run. Walked. Made it to the sidewalk before my hands started shaking.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I had an interview in two hours. For a job I desperately needed. And I looked like someone who’d just been evicted, which, oh wait, I had.

I called Sasha.

“Hey girl, how’d the—”

“They’re evicting us.”

Silence.

“Seventy-two hours,” I whispered. “He said seventy-two hours.”

“Annie—”

“I have the interview today. At two. For the house thing. I’m gonna get it. I have to get it. And then I’ll get paid and we’ll fix this and—”

“Annie, breathe.”

I realized I wasn’t breathing.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Sasha said. Didn’t sound like she believed it. “Go to the interview. Be amazing. We’ll figure the rest out after.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

I hung up. Stood on the sidewalk. Checked the time.

One hour and forty-five minutes until the most important interview of my life.

I looked like shit. Felt like shit. Had an eviction notice in my pocket and a future that depended on a rich person liking me.

Great.

Time to go be “professional.”