Waffle Palace Swing and a Miss

The long wool tartan skirt swished around her ankles as they spun to lean up against the wall outside of the Palace. Green, blue, and grey from their sweater. They looked a bit brighter than they normally did. Like they were trying to impress someone. But there was something of a dead look in their dark green eyes. A hand shoved roughly into a hidden pocket in the skirt and they pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping out one, popping it between their lips.

Other pocket, lighter. Flick, flick, flick. It lit up and gave warm light to the end of the cigarette. Christmas took a long drag and blew it out of the corner of their lips. Another failed interview. Which was fine. They didn't want to work there anyway, but they were fielding home visits from the super, slipping loose 20s in envelopes under his door. Their already meager savings was dwindling and, shamefully, they'd called old mom and stepdad earlier last week for a bit of a loan to keep the water and lights on.

The taste of acrid smoke mixed with lingering orange flavor. At least they'd offered her a drink. Get those all important C vitamins. The door jingled as a customer (or maybe someone that interviewed after them -- they didn't bother to look at the face) strolled out, and Chris finally looked up.