Shades of Brown.

Please select your option from the drop down list. When she hovered over, she pressed back into her chair and took a breath and wondered where her selection would take her. The pixelated screen began to whir in a mass of blues and purples. Cyan and Mauve. Every shade, every tone. It sucked her through the finger smeared glass, legs flailing, crushed awkwardly, as her small frame was drawn in.

If Only. Her name was Rachel and she worked in McDonalds. "Do you want fries with that sir?" she asked in a clinical monotone that seemed to be smeared heavily over a broad Glaswegian accent, jabbing at the screen. Her greasy hair was scraped back, hidden beneath a grubby cap bearing a golden M. Although, Rachel wouldn't describe anything as golden in that dump, to her it wasn't bronze, it wasn't copper. On the brown scale of mediocrity, it was shite. To her calling anything in McDonalds golden was like trying to polish crap, you couldn't do it.

It was a Sunday after all. Everything was substandard on a Sunday. Sunday 17th of December, the festive season was in full swing and service with a smile had gone out the window as soon as the impetuous brats and bimbos carrying their Christmas shopping had been ushered in. The usual staff's ranks had been boosted by an influx of hung-over students trying to earn enough money for next terms liver destroying "fun". She was waiting for one of these liver killers to come and take her place at the till, feet tapping impatiently.

A suitably hung-over individual shuffled towards her, stepping tentatively, doing his utmost not to trip on the bags under his eyes. Rachel spotted the remains of last nights kebab nestling in this delightful specimens beard, as he grudgingly shoved a cap over his hair. Before he was even aware where he was or how he'd ended up at work, she was off. Like a bullet from a gun, she was gone, near on unstoppable; Rachel was gagging for a fag.

Her hands shook and her head was throbbing, she needed nicotine. It was similar to escaping prison and if she was to play it back in her head it would go something like this. "Avoid inmates. Dodge supervisor. Grab Coat. Run like the hounds of hell are snapping at your goddamn ankles and never look back. Never."

It was the end of another dull winter’s day, and the rain had fallen in heavy sheets, turning the last lying snow into slush. It had stopped by then but the cold was drawing in, wrapping itself around those braving the streets. She pulled the black puffa jacket tighter, exhaling into the descending darkness, breath condensing upon the cold night. Fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew what she needed; grubby, yellowish fingers, clawing at a battered box of cigarettes, grabbing for the orange lighter that was buried in receipts and wrappers. There was a sense of urgency as her tremulous hands sparked and held the lighter, holding it up to the end of her fag. Inhaling deeply, cravings eased. Smoking was her catharsis.

She’d been smoking since she was eighteen, ever since she thought journalists were cool, smoking was cool. It was the ultimate rebellion. It was cool. It tethered her to her shredded dreams; she would cling to that ideology, or hope would leave her alone again. Cigarette hanging from her lips, face set in a stony glare. Rachel was sure that smoking was all that was left of who she wanted to be. She'd gone to university with her possessions packed messily, plaid shirts and pea coats, records and an ipod filled with unheard bands, copies of multiple intellectual studies in philosophy and numerous classics. But the most important of her possessions was a suitcase crammed with dreams, naive hopes, aspirations of the deluded. She still clung onto those dreams of travelling the world as a journalist, and smoking was a throw back to when she was cool, when she didn't have to work for “Ronald Fucking McDonald” to pay her rent or put food in her mouth.

The slush seeped through her canvas shoes, soaking her socks, chilling her toes, cold climbing up from her extremities. She was set to autopilot; she didn't need her brain to get home. She rarely needed her brain anymore. Slowly routine numbed her mind removing the ability for intelligent thought but the journey home was an opportunity to withdraw into her head and contemplate the future. The future was hard to comprehend and thirty minutes passed in the blink of an eye.

Rachel refused to tell her colleagues that she was plotting her escape and that in fact she'd applied for a job, an internship with The Times. Her dream job, well it was the first step of many on the arduous road to achieving the real dream of International Corespondent. It had been three weeks and she was waiting for news. She couldn't help but see the irony, her chapped lips pulling into a painful smile. Rachel would rather take her secret like an anchor round her neck and jump overboard, than to have her colleagues see into her dreams. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she'd never share, she'd just not turn up. Fuck McDonalds. Why on earth would you give the devil notice you were leaving hell?

She pulled out the keys from her deep pocket, and opened her door; the warmth hit her like a brick wall. She tore off her coat and a left it at her feet as the answering machine beeped. She darted over and pressed the play button.

"Good afternoon, Miss Thompson, it's Alison from The Times here. We thought you'd be at work but we'd just like to inform you that you've got the job. We'll phone you later to go over the details. “

Rachel's jaw dropped; mouth so wide you could have driven a lorry through it with manoeuvring space. Her heart had quickened. Free. Free of McDonalds. That's why you hold onto dreams, to escape the necessary, to forget the menial. The phone rang, and Rachel smiled. Truly smiled, as she lit another cigarette.