Curled up in the smallest ball possible, alone yet again late on a Friday night, Suzanne wept softly to herself. Her pillow caught most of the tears, but several stayed home on her cheek. The bed that had seen so many milestones in this nearly 20-year-old young woman's life (all those infamous first steps that every woman must take: first cry-yourself-to-sleep night, first period, first sexual experience) was now the only object - inanimate or otherwise - that would provide any consolation.
This day had begun with yet another ten-to-six work day (an eight hour shift without a break, mind you - state rules and regulations don't mean a thing when it comes to her job). She despised working the long hours but she desperately wanted them. Well, she actually just wanted money, but rumor has it that money does not grow on trees. Throw in the fact that no rich uncle of hers was on death's door and Suzanne was not in a position to choose an occupation of her dreams.
So she had settled for a waitress job at a small bistro called Alessandro's. It merely sounded exquisite. Displaying the dreaded grade B in the front window, the restaurant did not pay either her, or the other four waitresses who worked six days a week, very well. The others worked the morning/afternoon shift so they could bartend at a local Coyote Ugly-type bar at night. Five hours of sleep was considered hibernation for these women. That's just how they lived. And Suzanne was creeping ever-closer to joining them in their hedonistic ways.
However, Suzanne was most unlike her co-workers' appearance. While the twenty-somethings that lived it up displayed their character through heavy makeup, skirts that would make Daisy Duke blush, and half-hidden lower-back tattoos, Suzanne (or Suze for short - pronounced "sooz" - she hated the nickname but who was she to stop everyone from using it!) did her best to appear innocent. The final step in her morning ritual before work was bending over with her back to a mirror to check if her full-bodied panties could be seen even just a little. Thongs never did reside in Suzanne's dresser - "I'm not that girl" she told herself.
It was if Suzanne was from a different generation, that is if that time period was the one where tan and scandalous was considered "whorish." Pale and liberally freckled, Suzanne stood an average woman's height and was no heavier than her compatriots. Her 34 double B's were perfectly proportionate to her stature and she had that hourglass figure that many women yearned to share. Her lack of flaunting (or even accentuating, for that matter) led many to believe that this girl (would a woman ever dress this simple and unmemorable?) could never be capable of "living it up." It was that constant doubt of bystanders that caused her to have the night that precluded her depressing staring contest with her lacy pink pillow.