Times Square(5)

"Sure thing," I call out as I slide the garment bag off the top of her office door and fold it over my arm as I prepare to leave her office.

"And this shouldn't take more than two hours, Lauren. Please don't waste the entire day on this, okay?"

I bite my lip and nod as I walk out of her office. I stop at my desk to arrange the car service the company uses for a pick-up and then head into the women's bathroom to change.

And that is the story of how I end up in Times Square in a wedding dress.

Fuck. My. Life.

This day is shit. Complete and utter shit and I'm done trying to spin it. Done! It's a good day for nothing is what it is. You know that old saying? It's not you, it's me? It's not me. This day sucks.

Oh, God, this was probably a sample dress. It's likely been tried on a hundred times already and now I'm wearing it and sweating in it and—gross.

I have to swallow the lump in my throat to keep from crying. When I left the office in a wedding dress I almost died. I know it's New York and people should be used to seeing anything and everything, but that doesn't help when it's you. And a woman walking through an office building lobby in a wedding gown is going to get some odd stares.

Walking around Times Square midday on a Friday in a stupid white dress isn't much better.

It's not anything I would have picked out if I'd gotten that far in my wedding planning before booting the fiancé. My mom and my maid of honor would have gone with me and I'd have tried on something resembling a picture I'd torn out of a magazine. I'd have practiced walking down the aisle and stood up on my tiptoes to get an idea of what the length would look like with heels. I'd have twirled a little to get a sense of how the material would move and what it would feel like brushing against my legs.

It might have been a princess style with three-quarter-length lace sleeves and matching lace detail over the bodice. Or maybe a ball gown with a sweetheart bodice. Possibly an A-line with a plunging V-neck and a satin ribbon around the waist. It would not have been this dress. Not this spaghetti-strapped, empire-waisted chiffon dress I'm currently wearing.

I drop the box of flyers at my feet and kick it before grabbing a stack off the top. At least I'm wearing my sneakers. See, everything happens for a reason. These sneakers are like a little gift from the universe right now.

"Huge wedding dress sale!" I call out to a couple of women walking nearby, but they don't even turn their heads. Well, that's a great start. I manage to pass out a couple dozen before I'm asked what my rate is. For the night. Because the guy thinks I'm a hooker.

I tell him to fuck off and contemplate looking for a new job, good company be damned. This is ridiculous.

I'm grabbing another handful of flyers when I'm approached by one of New York's finest. If this ends in me getting arrested I am definitely quitting. I could always move to Hawaii and be a waitress. I've got loads of experience from college. I'd find an outdoor ocean-front restaurant to work at and I'd make more than I do now, plus I'd get to enjoy a million-dollar view and fresh ocean air. Fine, I may have fantasized about this a time or two and done the odd hour or three of research. Visualizing a life of shorts and flip-flops all year long is my escape.

"Miss, you can't perform here. You need to move to one of the blue zones." He points to a section of pavement covered in blue paint.

"What?" I question, glancing over at the area he's pointing at. I'm vaguely familiar with the groups of costume characters and street performers working for tips in Times Square being restricted to designated zones.

"I'm not a street performer," I tell him with a shake of my head. "I'm just telling people about a sale at the Budget Bridal Stop." I hold up a flyer. "See?"

"Solicitations in the blue zone, miss. Move along before I have to ticket you."

Solicitations? I'm not soliciting! Wait, maybe I am. Does advertising a bridal shop sale count as selling? Shit. I pick up my box and walk over to the blue zone while wondering how much a one-way ticket to Honolulu is.

Probably more than I have.

I'm in the blue zone for less than five minutes before some idiot in a superhero costume makes a pass at me. I literally cannot make this shit up.

Twenty minutes after that I get my first tip. A tourist drops a quarter into my box as he walks past. I'm about to yell at him that I'm not a street performer when it hits me.

I left the office without my purse.

Without my phone.

Without my subway card.

Without a return ride.

That's the exact moment I start to cry. I'm not a complete disaster, I don't start sobbing, but my eyes are filling with tears, so I focus on a giant neon sign advertising Broadway’s latest hit to try to distract myself from the knowledge that it's a two-and-a-half-mile walk back to the office from Times Square. It's not that I'm incapable of walking that far—it's the idea of walking it in a wedding dress. It's gonna be one hell of a walk of shame, that's for sure.