Selina oversleeps wc 637

The clock seemed to move faster than I liked this morning. I swore I was resting my eyes for ten minutes, and I had overslept an hour. I jumped up, and grabbed my toothbrush, and rushed around the bedroom getting dressed. I was the owner of the art gallery, but I had a meeting with the reporter from the Gambit in less than an hour, and that was my commute from the north shore into the city.
I found myself in the car with a can of diet coke and a granola bar, driving over the causeway. I did a mental check and assessed if I got out the house with my bra, shoes, and purse. Luckily, I had chosen basic black pants, and a blue blouse. The leather jacket made me look smart, yet trendy. I hit traffic, and I took out my emergency make up kit in the glove compartment, and started applying the cream to powder foundation, and the sheer pink lip gloss. I dug in the cup holder and found silver hoops, I had deposited there two weeks ago. As I exited the ramp to downtown, I was finally dressed.
The traffic in the city inched along for miles; it seemed only three cars made the light each time it turned. The cell phone screeched like a bird from a Poe poem, startling me. I lifted the phone and saw the number that started 947. I smiled, it was Mansel.
“Good Morning!” I answered.
“Wow, you answer the phone like that every morning?”
“No, I saw it was you, what’s up?”
“I see this young man waiting outside your gallery. Do you have a-“
“Yes, tell him to wait for me!” I shouted through the phone.
“Ok, Ok!” Mansel dropped the phone; he was the only person I knew who still had a corded phone.
Three more cars inched over the light, but I still was like two miles away from Canal street. I waited tapping the steering wheel, and feeling my anxiety build, as I waited for Mansel to come back to his ancient phone.
“Selina?” he asked, “are you still there?”
“Yep, what did he say?”
“His name is Aaron, and he was here for an interview-“
“I know that! Is he waiting for me?” I demanded.
Mansel’s voice got slower and quieter, “Well, he has another interview at eleven, so unless you are here in fifteen minutes, he has to leave.”
I gasped a deep breath, and gritted my teeth, “Go, you ass!”
Mansel was silent on the other end, and then he asked, “Selina?”
His voice brought my anxiety to a lower level, and I could feel the air moving through my lungs again. I regained some sanity as the light moved, and I crossed over Canal Street, and turned toward the French Quarter.
“Mansel, I’m sorry, but this morning has been very stressful. I’m in traffic, but now it is moving.”
“You don’t have to be so upset. Aaron said you can reschedule the interview,” Mansel explained dryly.
“I really don’t want to do that, it took me a long time to get this one,” I whined, and I could feel the hairs on my neck rising.
“What’s it for? You getting an award?” he asked, with irritation and a little sarcasm.
“I’m a new face in the New Orleans art world.”
“Oh, is he interviewing you on your talent or modesty?” Mansel said ‘modesty” with a chuckle.
“I’m parking the car, is he still there?” I asked, ignoring his attempt at a joke, he had no talent in that.
“He just left. He’s coming back tomorrow. I told him that you cannot commit to anything before noon. It seems the new face of art is not a morning person.”
I slammed the phone shut, and screamed, “Argh!”