Streetlights Part 5 (fiction)

Kate got drunk and removed all remnants of her life with Thomas while in this inebriated state. She was angry about the situation now, but she knew that within a very short timeframe she would start to miss him and lament the loss. She would gloss over what he had done to her and she would allow herself to believe that she had led him to this inevitable position, that she had forced his hand, that there was something missing in the relationship which she had failed to provide. Though three and a half glasses to the wind, her mental faculties had not quite packed it in and the resounding and rallying cry was: she didn't need this shit.
A couple of garbage bags of stuff went into the bin. Some of the items that she thought others might want she placed beside the garbage bin: CDs, jewellry, clothing. It would all be gone by the time she awoke in the morning and, besides, she would have a nice hangover to keep her busy.
When she clambered out of bed at close to twelve the next day she shuddered as she passed a mirror. Her eyes were horribly swollen due to the crying, the late night and the bottle of wine. She noted the smoke detector lying on the floor and dimly recalled the shrill shriek it admitted when she had burnt her steak. The charred pan was deposited in the sink. Too ashamed and unmotivated to venture out in public, she spent the day napping, cleaning and reading. She spoke to no one: no friends, no family members. It was shock enough that she had lost her job on Friday, and she was unable to bear the additional stigma of being the jilted ex-girlfriend.
On Sunday she updated her resume and applied for countless jobs. She returned a couple of phone calls, but did not allude to her unceremonious dumping on Friday. She had decided that she would give it a couple of weeks and then tell people that they had split for whatever vague reason: they weren't on the same page; they were drifting apart; he was a fucking idiot... whatever. Recovered from Saturday's hangover, she managed to get drunk again: this time mostly while in the tub reading one of the many books she had collected over the years but had never had the time to sit down and enjoy.
She had initially fancied the idea of getting up at the regular time on Monday, going to a nearby coffee shop and languidly lounging while sipping a cappuccino and watching harried people scurry in and out to buy their jolting shots of caffeine and unhealthy breakfasts on their way into jobs that they felt were mentally draining and devoid of all joy (this is how she liked to picture these people, at any rate). Hangover number two prevented this, though she did take solace in the fact that she could still make it to the coffee shop for the lunch rush and take some joy - though markedly less, mind you - from knowing that the clientele had to eventually go back to desk duty while she could put her feet up on any number of available chairs.
Trying to buoy herself with this concept she launched out of the apartment, bringing a book and her cell phone with her. The coffee shop was surprisingly busy and she had to resign herself to a table near the washroom, which she utterly abhorred. Her original forecast that the coffee shop patrons would clear out in a timely fashion was sorely off base: these people didn't seem to be going anywhere. And putting her feet up was also out of the equation, as the chair across from her had been requisitioned by an attractive young man in a sharp suit that joined two other equally attractive people that exuded clean cut professionalism and a penchant for BMWs. She scowled to herself as she was made to feel under dressed and odd for being alone. The noisy din prohibited her from being able to concentrate on the book. When she found a long, black hair in her turkey wrap she pushed away from the table and walked out.
Returning home she noticed that she had a missed call and had a voicemail waiting on her cell; clearly she had been unable to hear it ringing while she was (supposed to be) gloating at leading a life of leisure while in the cafe. She checked the message and it was someone interested in setting up an interview with her. She called them back and was able to schedule a meeting for 11am the next day.
Feeling a little more guided, a little more charged, she rummaged through her relatively casual wardrobe to find some finery more suited to the interview process. She re-checked the ad on the internet and was happy to see that it looked like a very promising, well-paying position within an established, creative and slightly edgy firm. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but the job seemed quite a lot better than her previous one. She printed off a copy of her resume, emailed all her references to advise them that they may be receiving a phone call, and then left her apartment again to go for a walk and clear her mind.
On Tuesday she got up early enough to give herself ample time to get prepared and to get downtown and find parking. Feeling confident she climbed into her car and popped in a Jayhawks CD. The light had just turned green and she was crossing Broadway in the curb lane when she was t-boned at an amazing speed. She was able to retain consciousness long enough to register the airbag deploying and to be concerned that she had donned her glasses before embarking on her trip downtown: she had read somewhere that airbags had an unpleasant way of shattering eyeglasses and embedding the shards into your face.