Below is just a blurb of a possibility.
I sat at a table in the crowded coffee shop, wiping the condensation from the iced latte in front of me, when the clock chimed. My head snapped up and a curse flew from my mouth, earning me a glare from the mother of two seated nearby. The clock chimed again, reminding me of the time.
Grabbing my latte and messenger bag, I mouthed a quick sorry and left the coffee shop. I was going to be late.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I chanted under my breath as I ran or tried to in three-inch heels on slippery tile.
The clock chimed again, letting me know it’s noon while I dodged a group of tourists asking directions to the White House. Even on a Tuesday, I knew to expect crowds at Union Station. The D.C. paper pushers that braved the heat, were waiting in winding lines for their food. Glad to have missed standing in those lines, I wasn’t glad about entering the suffocating May heat to find no driver and no sign. No sign calling for Mrs. Allen was waving through the air. No sign and no driver. Great. This was my last chance. I needed this job. I needed protection the Agency could only provide, from myself and from others. But who was I kidding? I knew I’d ruin this. I always ruin things.