The incessant flapping of wings outside her window woke her up.

Anna was glad it was spring, and the baby birds were learning to fly, but it was going to be an important day and she just wanted to go back to sleep. She closed her eyes tightly hoping that if she forced the darkness, it would eventually come.

            It didn’t.

            She got out of bed and walked to her bathroom quietly—she pretended it was a full apartment, that there was someone else there she shouldn’t disturb. This hadn’t been true for a while now, and as she turned the lights on in her bathroom she crashed back into reality. Anna looked at herself in the mirror and played with the skin under her eyes—it had become soft and puffy in the last year. She told herself she needed to relax more, needed more time to sleep, needed to get out more.

            “A best-selling writer does not need more sleep, Anna. She needs more stories.”

            She rubbed her eyes and brought her face down towards the faucet, letting the cold water run freely over her nose and mouth before turning around and stepping into the shower. She scrubbed her skin under the scalding water until it felt raw—a habit her new main character, Fiona, had—finally stopping when she looked down and saw the red splotches left on her body. It reminded her that the last time anyone had seen her naked it hadn’t been her choice, and quickly turned the water to cold, watching as the skin on her stomach turned back to her natural color, the pearly pale she was so accustomed with.

            She stepped out of the shower without grabbing a towel and made her way back to the bedroom, leaving wet footprint in her wake. She had read somewhere that air-drying was the hip new thing to do, and for lack of experience, decided to give it a shot. All it meant was that now, after every shower, she had to clean her floors and watch as the once warm skin on her arms turned prickly with goose bumps.

Anna looked at the clock that stood on her nightstand, it read five am, she couldn’t believe it was still hours before her interview. She thought about getting back in bed and sleeping for a few more hours, but then remembered a deadline was coming up and since she was awake she could go sit in her office and write. She grabbed her robe, letting it absorb the leftover condensation on her skin and rubbed her arms, friction, she told herself, will make them go back to normal.

Her office had a floor-to-ceiling window that let her look out on the world as if she were a part of it.  Every day, Anna watched people walk their dogs, couples walking hand in hand, she saw people by themselves, simply strolling, and she wished she got out more. Daydreaming was an important part of her routine, but she quickly shook herself out of the reverie and turned to the bright screen of her computer. Getting out didn’t necessarily mean leaving her apartment, she told herself. Sometimes all she needed to do was climb into her stories to feel like she was a bigger part of the world.

            Media had dubbed her a recluse. People said that she was a loner, a weirdo, rude, and sometimes even a bitch. But she wasn’t any of those things and in order to improve her image, her agent had scheduled her for a radio interview. She knew she needed to get out Fiona’s head before she left her apartment, but until then she could fully immerse herself. Fiona was a talented writer—like herself—beautiful, fearless, and completely ruthless—unlike herself. This interview was a chance to change the distorted image the media had of her. And yet, as Anna’s fingers began typing away at her computer, she knew she was doomed.

            She eventually peeled herself off her chair and back into her room to pick an outfit. She knew no one would be able to see her—it was a radio show after all—but it didn’t matter. She picked a dress she had never worn before, a dress she bought on a whim. A skintight black number that hit her right below her knees, the sales girl had convinced her that it was both sexy and classy, and when she put on a pair of red stilettos she knew the girl had been right.

            She walked out of her apartment slowly, taking each step deliberately. Something was scratching her back and she realized that the tags were still on the dress. But she was running late and didn’t have time to go back in, so she told herself she would cut it off when she arrived at her destination. The words “mind over matter,” played in her head over and over, the same way her dad used to repeat them to her when she was young.

Her shows clanged on the pavement with each step, calling attention to her strut. She knew people were staring, probably at her ass. God, she couldn’t remember when the last time she felt this sexy had been, she wanted them to keep staring, part of her wanted them to try grabbing. She smiled to herself in triumph as she paused for a red light.

            There was a coffee shop right by where she had stopped and she turned to herself on the glass window. Through her reflection, she could see the stranger sitting on the other side, unable to peel his eyes off of hers, and yet unable to touch her. She smiled wickedly and pulled her red lipstick out of her bag, opening her mouth seductively as the red filled her mouth. When the light turned green, she winked at him and walked away, knowing she had set the perfect trap. She hopped she would run into him on her way back from the interview, she needed to have a little fun.

            The wind picked up, blowing her long black hair backwards. For all she knew, she could have been on a shampoo commercial, but these things don’t happen in real life. She slowed down to look down at her mother’s watch—it sat delicately on her wrist, reminding her that life had given her everything but time—when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

            “Excuse me.” It was the man from the coffee shop. “I just couldn’t let you get away.”

            “Oh?” God damn it she thought, she didn’t want this to be easy. Easy wasn’t fun.

            He stuck his hands in his jean pockets, the top half of his body leaned towards her as he looked at her through his eyelashes, his head tilted slightly downwards. She couldn’t help but chuckle, everything that had happened today had been straight out of a bad rom com, down to this guy with his “I wanna fuck you eyes.”

“You’re beautiful.”

            He was tall and fit—wide shoulders suggested he had been an athlete in college. But it was clear that in the years since he had graduated he’d developed a taste for coffee and Proust, he had exchanged his sweats for skinny jeans and a leather jacket.  The well-groomed hair implied he didn’t spend less than $100 dollars on hair products, and that given the chance, he would fuck himself, because no one could ever be good enough for him. He had become the kind of man who always had everything handed to him—women, success, and a full-grown beard.

            “I know.” He was wasting her time. First impressions count, she reminded herself as he played at being coy. If he made her late to her interview, she would make him pay.

            “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I would like to take you out to dinner.” She rolled her eyes and smiled at him, “I don’t think so.” She walked away, this time picking up her pace a little bit.

            A wave of power and energy coursed through her. All men think they know exactly what we want—the sensitive type who takes care of himself, but most importantly takes care of his lady. He wasn’t any different. She could tell he thought he was being original by calling her beautiful, as if he was the first to say it. As if women don’t know it unless a man tells her so. Slyly looking back, she saw him standing exactly where she’d left him looking angry and annoyed. She was still in time to make to the interview, she thought as she turned back around and continued on her way.

            Five minutes late is not so bad. She walked into the radio station and, without stopping to announce her arrival at reception, she took the elevator to the tenth floor where the radio host was waiting for her.

            “Ms. Underwood, I presume?” Morty, was a fat, short man, whose face shone with sweat. His belly protruded ahead of him giving him a rounded look. She thought back to the guy she left on the sidewalk; Morty and him were two sides of the same coin, both equally repulsive in opposite ways. Her heels gave her enough height over him to view the bald spot at the top of his head, there seemed to have been some attempt at a comb over but it had been abandoned when he’d realized all the gel had succeeded in doing was make his scalp bowling-ball shiny. He stuck his clammy hand out, which she shook with disgust, quickly pulling hand sanitizer out of her bag as soon as he’d let her go.

He gave her the old up-down while licking his lips, “Great legs, what time do they open?” and without another word, began walking away. When she didn’t immediately follow, he motioned with his head in the direction he was going.

            Leaning against the studio table Morty said, “This will be quite simple,” she stood by the door, his overwhelming stench made it near impossible to walk in. He pointed to a chair near his crotch, “You will sit here and I will sit across from you. I will ask you a set of questions, which are also written on the page in front of you. You can take as long as you want to answer them since this will only be aired tomorrow and we’ll have time to cut out the silence. No need to worry, it’s a lot easier than it seems, no need to act since no one will be able to see you.”

            She nodded, took a deep breath—knowing it would be her last fresh one—and walked in. Morty didn’t move from his perch as she came closer and began adjusting herself on the chair. Nicotine stained teeth approached her as he placed a set of headphones over her head. He took longer than usual adjusting the headset, his nose inches from her neck, and she quickly shook him off.

            “OK, so, you need to get as close to the microphone as possible when answering. We will do a couple tests so you can figure out what’s the best proximity to the microphone. You’ll be able to hear the entire conversation real time through these guys,” he said, flicking the headphones twice. Finally, Morty moved away from her and around the table to sit on the other side and began the preparations for the recording.

Morty gave her thumbs up and then started speaking into the microphone; he introduced listeners to the radio station, the show and her. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her breasts while he spoke, she shuddered and when he finally looked her in the eye, she gave him a vampiric smile.

            “Let’s get to the first question, shall we?”

She nodded in response. She’d practiced a few answers with her editor, since she had to be careful not to say too much about her new book, didn’t want to ruin the element of surprise once it was finally published.

“Where do you get most of the inspiration for your writing?”

            “Everywhere really. My writing is inspired by anything from dreams I’ve had, to the conversations I have with my mailman and even things I overhear. I spend a lot of time talking to myself, having imaginary conversations with people—sometimes people that don’t exist. This all helps me create people and situations that feel real to my readers.”

            “Would you say you write with a certain audience in mind?”

            “I am my best audience. I write things that I want to read and if, consequently, others want to read it too, then good for them.” She knew her agent would want to smack her for that answer. “You have to make your readers believe care most about them and what they want, for the love of God, you need to stop angering them,” she’d been told over and over again.

            “So what would you say to your readers if they asked you to write a sequel to one of your books?”

            “I would probably tell them that it’s not up to them.” She flashed her pearly whites one more time.

He chuckled, a loud, phlegmy laugh.

She continued, “Realistically, I would say that there’s always room for more and the chance for sequels. They’re never done until we’ve run out of characters and stories. In a way, they have a life of their own, so it’s not really up to me either.” Morty was less interested in this answer; he wanted something raunchier, something that would get people to react. This was too good of answer.

            “Moving on,” he said quickly, trying to find a juicier question, “Do you model your characters after yourself? Because meeting you today, like this, which by the way, that dress—mhm. For all you listeners who don’t have the pleasure of sitting in front of her right now, let me tell you our dearest author is wearing quite an outfit, it makes me think of something perhaps Saphire would wear in your latest book.” Saphire was the heroine of her last published work. She was an escort hired by the Russian Mafia to take down the American government. She was a classic femme fatale. She didn’t need anyone to take care of her; everyone wanted to be her, or be with her, but she was better off on her own.

            “No, my characters do not exist. They are fruits of my imagination and any resemblance to any real—living or dead—person is merely a coincidence.” She looked at him through slits as he smiled and winked at her. She had no idea what the wink meant, and frankly she didn’t care. It was just a hint of what was to come, she could sense that he would try to ruin this opportunity for her—typical, he’s only after what he wants, with no consideration for anyone else.

            “Would you say your characters are modeled after people you would like to be?”

She stared him down. Her characters sometimes had traits she wished she had, but she was strong and confident in herself. She knew she wasn’t perfect, but she didn’t want to change who she was.

            “No.”

            “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

            “What?”

            “Are you single?”

            “What does this have to do with my novel?”

            “Our listeners want to know.”

            “Do they or do you want to know?”

            “Never mind,” he huffed, she wasn’t going to play his game that easily, “When do you think your next novel will be out?”

            “My first draft is due in a couple months, but we haven’t set an official date yet. We want to keep our readers guessing! My marketing team has a lot of great things planned in the near future. We would never leave my faithful followers hanging.”

            “That is great to hear! Can we get a sneak peak on what it will be about?”

            “Unfortunately no, but I can tell you it’s going to be great.”

He paused the recording and said, “The next portion of the interview will be trivia questions about yourself. Our listeners like to know that famous people are real and normal, just like them.”

She nodded. He pushed a button to the side and made himself a little bigger on his chair, a little wider on the waist and a little taller. She thought Morty was the type of guy who called himself famous, even though nobody would recognize him walking down the street. The charismatic type behind the microphone but had nothing going for him in person. He overcompensated for his size and sweat by being forward and cocky, by jumping to conclusions and assuming that the world was at his feet. He would judge a woman for eating a burger, but would never dream of skipping his daily fast food intake to go to the gym—a misogynist through and through.

“Do you still see your old boyfriends?”

She frowned.

“No,” she said smugly. Let him believe whatever she wanted from that response, she had her reasons.

“What kind of panties are you wearing right now?

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Top or bottom?”

“Top, always.”

“Have you ever been with an older man?”

“Yes.”

“What would you do if I asked you to come home with me after we’re done?”

Without flinching she turned to look at the record button, which was dark instead of the flashing red it had been the rest of the time. Fucking Morty she thought. She was used to not being taken seriously by men who were blinded by her beauty, but this was a whole new low.

She couldn’t believe the audacity on this guy, disgusting, sleazy, horny Morty; Morty who had only looked at her face once throughout the interview and had spent the rest of the time ogling her breasts. He was going to get what he deserved.

“Why don’t we go back to my place?” she replied. And with that, a smug smile spread across his chapped lips. He took his headphones off and came over to her side. For the first time all day, she noticed that he hobbled when he walked, his short legs struggling to hold up his weight. She went along with it, made him think that this was exactly what the wanted. It didn’t matter what he thought, they were playing her game now.

He sat on the edge of the desk and bent down to kiss her. His breath smelled like onion and fries. She held her breath and let him kiss her, it was all part of her plan, but when he tried to stick his tongue down her throat, she quickly pulled back.

“I have to grab a few things from my office first, I’ll meet you by the elevators.” She batted her eyelashes, knowing that men loved it when she played the innocent card, and stood up too. She repeated her mantra in her head: make yourself look small so that they feel big, let them think they’re in charge; they’ll never see it coming. She stopped by the bathroom to reapply her red lipstick, coating it on thickly across her lips; she wanted to make a mess.

Even thought he suggested calling his “personal driver,” she insisted they walk back to he apartment. She was taller than Morty, especially in her stilettos, which meant she had to walk at a glacial pace for him to keep up. But she knew the walk would let het clear her head, otherwise her plan would never work. In order for everything to run smoothly, she needed to keep her cool, and she couldn’t do that if she was confined in a room, inevitably impregnated with his pungent odor.

“Make yourself at home,” she said as she walked to her room, kicking her shoes off along the way. He definitely did, stretching himself on her patent leather couch. She wouldn’t let this get too far and definitely wouldn’t let this move to her bedroom; she couldn’t afford a mess in there. She decided to change out of her dress—too new to get that dirty—and grabbed a simple black slip. The same one she had used and washed so many times it was beginning to look sheer. As she put it over her head, she thought it was really time to invest in a new uniform.

Morty was lounging in the living room with his legs spread apart, taking up as much space as possible. He had unbuttoned his shirt and taken off his belt in expectation. She walked behind him, letting her fingers trail his shoulders and back as she made her way to the bar. She poured two large glasses of whiskey and handed one to Morty without looking at him.  In one big gulp, she downed the entire drink, feeling it go down as it warmed her insides.

He pulled her onto his lap and started fondling her. She let him kiss her neck and her mouth, but every time things got a little more heated she made sure to slow it down. “Not yet, don’t rush it,” she told herself. “The angrier you feel, the more you’ll enjoy it.”

Finally, she felt him getting excited, and as he buried his head deep in her chest, she reached over to the table next to the couch, grabbing the strategically placed letter opener. She forcefully grabbed him by the little hair still attached to his scalp and pulled his head back, and looked him straight in the eyes as she made a clean cut across his throat.

Anna stretched herself and got up to a standing position. Her foot had fallen asleep from having been under her and her eyes felt foggy, but she was happy with what she had written today.

She quickly glanced down at her mother’s watch, “Shit, shit shit,” she said to herself as ran out of her study. Her interview was in an hour and she wasn’t even dressed yet. Fiona, and the now dead Morty, could wait until she was done.

Anna quickly rushed to her room and grabbed the first thing she found in her closet, it was a radio show after all and no one was going to be able to see her.