“hold the elevator please!”

although, she’s in a rush to get home and kick her feet up with a nice cup of hot chamomile tea within arm’s reach, irene presses the open doorbutton and waits.she expects a young girl maybe carrying textbooks piled against her chest hurrying home after an eventful day studying at the library. or perhaps another minimum wage employee exhausted after a ten hour shift. what irene doesn’t expect, though, is a rather attractive young lady with dogs at her command. 

irene freezes, already petrified of one dog—so what more seven yapping ones of various sizes and pedigrees. she lets go of the button. 

“no, no, no. get on the next one!” she says almost rudely, but she’s too scared to really care about manners and what have you. 

it’s too late, however. the girl, the owner or whoever she is is pressing the button from the outside, panting with crossed eyebrows. she glares at irene. 

“the other one is in maintenance. there’s plenty of room in this one. c’mon, let me in.” there isn’t a fight to enter because irene is backed to the corner, hands trembling as the pack scrambles inside. 

she shrieks, face turned to the wall when a few dogs sniff around her shoes. some even try to jump on her, scratching at her legs. her black leggings become a breeding ground for fur. she just washed them, too. what a waste!

“yah, stop. leave her alone!” the girl shouts, tugging fiercely on the reins. hair falls to her face, and she blows at the strands free from a loosely tied ponytail. “they’re normally so well behaved,” she sighs, defeated and tired. 

“yeah, well, why do you even have so much?” irene keeps her eyes shut, not daring to looking into their beady eyes and sharp fangs. she read dogs can sense fear and thrive off of it or something. they must be going haywire. 

“oh?” the girl chuckles, almost too pleasantly, as if she’s happy by the observation. “these aren’t mine. i’m just a dog walker.” 

“a dog walker?” there’s practically horror in irene’s tone. she’s never spoken louder in the entire day of serving coffee to the caffeine addicted youth and elderly of seoul. today is full of late surprises. “what kind of job is that?”

“it’s literally like the best job ever! you shouldn’t discriminate!”

“i’m not discriminating!” irene hasn’t raised her voice in a good while, but the situation calls for it. she’s outnumbered, bottom lip very well quivering under clamped teeth. she can tell it’s puffy and swollen. “it’s just not the type of job i’d have.”

“sorry the office job isn’t for me?” except the girl isn’t very apologetic about it, a hand rooted on an expressive, twerked hip. intimidation radiates off of her in large doses, douses out irene’s own self-esteem. “doesn’t your get sore sitting all day?”

“you shouldn’t assume. i don’t work at an office,” clarifies irene, too scared to be offended by the assumption. she is usually quick to put people in their place, but for now, she’s refrained and mannered. but for how much longer? she can’t say for certain. though, it is dwindling at an alarming rate. 

the girl sniffs the air in the tiny, cramped elevatar car. so very like the dogs she claims to walk for a buck or two. 

“how did i not notice?” she cackles, rubbing a hand under her nose. “you reek of caffeine.”

“and you reek of canine!” irene yelps when a white, small, dopey eyed dog lunges at her legs. there it is, her trigger. nearly, she is knocked off balance but the walls save her from the inevitable. 

the girl reels her dogs back in again, knuckles practically blanched. “you know—“ the elevator chimes open to a floor. “you should get that stick out of your .” then it shuts fast when the girl and her horde of drooling mutts are gone. 

irene shakes herself of the jitters and of the fur that clings to her uniform. what bothers her more: the dogs, their companion or the fact she has to do laundry again? which isn’t all too bad, she decides when she fills another load as soon as she arrives home. the match is between the dogs and the dog walker. crazy, four legged animals or the equally crazy but enraging two legged human. dumping a cup of too much powdered detergent, she decides on the latter and prays to whatever listening god they don’t cross paths ever again. 

but the universe and fate must have something against her because she has to make the girl’s order of a mocha with skim milk and light whipped cream. the girl smiles, lips stretched so patronizingly, irene wants to wipe it off with a dirty rag. smear the red lipstick all over her face. she snickers, thinks her imagination is funny as she waits for the milk to steam. 

“you look better when you aren’t so scared,” the girl comments. 

tired of not knowing her name but not too curious to ask, irene reads what is looped on the cup. “and you look better without your dogs, joy.”

“ooo,” joy cackles, wagging her eyebrows, “first name basis already, huh?” she stared at irene’s badge. 

“i don’t appreciate being flirted with,” remarks irene, deadpan when she stirs the piping hot milk into the piping hot coffee. she spoons some foam in before uncapping the lid of whipped cream and squirting a perfect dome shape on the dark pool. 

joy snickers, scratching the edge of her nose. “don’t be too full of yourself. you’re not even my type.” she takes her order, depositing spare change into the tip box and helps herself to an available table not too far away from irene, who grimaces until lines frame . “if you smile, though, you could be my type.”

“ha. ha.” irene rolls her eyes. “shut up.”

“ooo, i’m telling your manager. you shouldn’t speak that way to a customer.” smugly, joy sips on her mocha. 

irene curses she burns her tongue, chokes—anything. but nothing. of course not. she returns to some other task like drying mugs with a clean towel, passing time by listening to wendy go on and on about something she can’t care less about. from a distance, joy watches from time to time. they have awkward glances. either one catches the other staring or misses entirely. but both know better. 

“can i help you?” irritated, irene questions the nth time she catches joy. this time, she doesn’t even bother to be discreet about it, full on staring. 

“well, i was going to say you make good mocha but nevermind.” joy shrugs, composure too confident for irene’s liking. finishing her drink, she sighs in satisfaction and wipes with a napkin, standing up shortly after to adjust a hoodie too big on her person. “off to walk the dogs. see you there, grumpy!” 

“grumpy?!” shocked by the stupid, juvenile nickname, irene exclaimed but it is far too late—joy is long gone, not even a glimpse of her vivid red hair billowing out the window. 

irene needs to move and needs to move asap.