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One good deed a day keeps the evil away.

Or, so they say. Yet, Mrs. Harrison stands in front of me, jabbing her red-lacquered nail into the counter as she says, "You're wrong. My appointment is today, right now. Do you hear me?" She leans in and starts speaking slowly and loudly. "My...appoint...ment...is...to...day."

Becca Harrison is one of those Upper East Side trophy wives with expertly styled auburn hair and Van Cleef dripping from her wrists and neck. Her bright blue eyes are lined in a smokey taupe, and her lashes look like broken spider's legs; they quiver as they blink rapidly at me.

She's in her third trimester, and her stomach, underneath the Chanel, is swollen, and, not for the first time, I inwardly wince at how heavy and uncomfortable it must be, carrying all that weight. No, not the baby. The fat. Despite every woman's most dire wishes, being pregnant forces you to pack on the extra pounds, and as she yells at me, I remind myself that, at least, I'm not fat like she is.

The thought gives me little joy, though, because she's still yelling at me, and she's starting to disturb the other patients in the waiting room.

I plaster on my it's-not-you-it's-me smile. "Mrs. Harrison, I understand your frustration. I'm so sorry, but our records show that your appointment for next Thursday at two PM had been confirmed five days ago."

Her lips twist cruelly. "You think I'm lying? I'm fucking pregnant, and you're calling me a liar?! It's your fault that you can't do your goddamn job correctly." Her voice turns shrill. "Do you know what I have to go through, Elin? The pain, the stress — I can no longer fit into my favorite Louboutins, my ankles are so swollen, and I can't even sleep anymore!" She's starting to get hysterical, and her eyes are watering now.

I'd already done my good deed today: I held the doors to the elevator open for this old couple this morning: Gramps used a walker, and he took his sweet time inching forward as his wife, looking equally dusty, hobbled on her cane behind him. They were so old, so slow, that, as I held the door for them and told them that it was no worry at all, take your time, I'd wondered how they weren't dead already.

I force myself back to the present. I don't have the energy to correct Mrs. Harrison that my name isn't Elin but Erin. Instead, I maneuver my features so that I look appropriately ashamed that I caused her to nearly cry. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Harrison. I'll see if Dr. Moretti can squeeze you in today. Please, take a seat and rest. Would you like some sparkling water with lime while you wait?"

She calms down immediately, though she doesn't hesitate to glare down her nose at me. "Obviously. That's the least you can do for me, don't you think?"

Bitch. "Of course," I say. "I'll bring it to you as soon as I'm done here. Thank you so much for your patience, and, again, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience." Not.

She waddles over to the empty chairs of the waiting room. Immediately, the other women waiting reach out their diamond-encrusted hands to placate Mrs. Harrison. They flick their made-up eyes at me, their stares like daggers. If I hadn't been behind the desk, I'd stare daggers right back, but since I am, I turn to my computer and pretend they don't exist, which isn't hard at all.

I scroll down the schedule. Doc is packed, back to back, all day today. There is no way I can squeeze her in like I'd told her I would. Though I hadn't promised her, for people like Mrs. Harrison, a suggestion of a promise is as good as any.

I get up from my chair. My lower back protests; what with sitting behind this desk for nine hours every day to sitting hunched over my worktable afterward, it's been hurting a lot these days. The Jimmy Choos I'm wearing don't help either. I shove the pain down and make my way deeper into the office.

As I enter the hall, I pass the large round mirror hanging in the center of the wall. I pause and regard my reflection. I'm wearing a pencil skirt that accentuates my hips and an emerald green silk blouse with a tie around the neck. My heels make my long, slim legs look even longer and slimmer. Under the fluorescence, my lips are plump and glossy with red, and my lashes are curved and separated. My ebony hair falls in a smooth, sleek waterfall over my right shoulder, and my Mikimoto pearl earrings catch the light. I can't help but smile. My makeup is perfect, my body is perfect, and my outfit is perfect. I'm perfect. I wink at my reflection.

I find Doc easily enough. He's behind Exam Room 7 where I can hear him talking to his patient who laughs like a schoolgirl. I knock.

"Coming!" Doc says.

A moment later, the door swings open. Inside the room, I glimpse Kendra Murray, twenty-two years old and newly pregnant, on the examination desk, her legs spread wide for her pap smear. Beside her is Sadie, the nurse; I forget her last name. The two women are chatting; I can't hear what they're saying. Doc steps out of the room, and the door closes behind him.

He's wearing his white doctor's coat over his tailored suit, and a lock of dark brown hair curls over his forehead. His deep brown eyes are warm as they settle on me. "Hey, Erin," he says.

"Hey, Doc," I say.

"You know you can call me Adam, Erin," he says, a knowing glint in his  dark brown eyes, which are as warm as they are seductive, and implore you to tell him all your darkest desires. Nice try, Doc.

Instead, I say, "We got a Code P." "P" is short for "Patient."

He sucks in a breath. "What's going on?" Though he's lived in the US for twenty-five years now, Doc still has the remnants of an Italian accent from his native Matera.

"Becca Harrison. She claims that her appointment is today even though she confirmed, multiple times through email and text, her appointment next week at two. I told her I'd see if you can squeeze her in today."

Doc purses his lips; they're full and look as soft as pillows. Factually speaking, of course. I don't mix my professional with my personal. "Lucky day for her, I can see her right after Kendra."

I pause. As much as I pride myself on excellent customer service, I always hate it when a hormonal bitch gets her way. "Are you sure?" I ask. "I saw your schedule today."

He nods. "I'm sure."

"She'll be happy to hear that," I say.

Doc reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. The heat from his palm seeps through the silk of my shirt. His hand lingers there for half a second too long before my shoulder is cold again.

"Thanks, Erin, Always."

"You're welcome," I say. "Always."

Doc retreats into the exam room, and I make my way back over to the front desk but not before I stop by the break room tucked behind the front desk and Exam Room 1 and pour a glass of ice-cold sparkling water; I resist the urge to lick the wedge of lime. I place the glass, including the un-licked lime slice, on a small silver serving tray.

Holding the tray with both hands, I enter the waiting room. All heads swivel at my arrival, and I can feel the eyes of twelve Manhattanites boring into me as I saunter my way toward Mrs. Harrison. At my slowness, I think I see her eyelid twitch. Booyah.

As I walk, too, I notice that the other women are checking me out. I can practically feel the anger and jealousy wafting off their bloated bodies. Double booyah. I can't blame them — I have a great ass, and I'd ogle at it, too. Hell, I already do.

"Thank you so much for your patience," I say as I hand her the glass. "Here is your sparkling water with lime, Mrs. Harrison." She takes it with those red-lacquered talons without so much as a thank you.

I lower the tray and fold my hands on top of it. "I'm also happy to report that Dr. Moretti will be able to see you today. Our nurse, Sadie, will call you in as soon as he is finished with his current patient."

"Good," Mrs. Harrison says.

"Is there anything else I could get you while you wait?"

Mrs. Harrison eyes me up and down. "No," she says. "You can go now."

I raise the tray and whack it clean across the trophy wife's face; I hear the crack of the nose and the explosive spurt of blood. It splatters on me, but I don't care: she has finally shut up.

But no, alas, that is just my imagination: the tray is still gripped in my hands, and Mrs. Harrison's face is as haughty and devoid of blood as ever. The mental image makes it easier for me to smile, at least. "Of course. If you need anything else, I'll be more than happy to help you. Thank you, again."

And with that, I turn on my heel and sashay back over to my desk, my back straight, and my head held high because I've got to give these poor, fat women a show, don't I?

The rest of the day passes without incident. The waiting room is always at least half full, even during lunch. I eat my sandwich in the break room with Sadie who chatters nonstop at me because she's delusional and thinks we're friends. I only see Doc once, right when I get up to throw away the wrapper of my sandwich. He winks at me in greeting before he's out again to see another patient.

Now, it's half past four, and I have to make my final call of the day, to a Mrs. Shelly Miner. I grab the phone and dial the number, my new dip nails winking in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window behind me. I take a moment to admire them as the phone rings and —

— straight to voicemail. Again.

"Hi, Mrs. Miner, this is Erin calling from Moretti & Associates. I hope you're doing well today. I'm just calling to remind you of your appointment this Friday at 10 AM. Please note that no-shows or cancellations after 48 hours will incur a $100 fee. We, at Moretti & Associates, cannot wait to see you. Thank you, and I hope you have a lovely day!"

I place the phone back onto the receiver where it clicks. I type a note into the system, directly under the one that I had written earlier this morning: Called Miner again, no response, left another voicemail. I spend the next thirty minutes or so wrapping up and then, at five sharp, I stand up. My joints pop as I do so, but it feels good.

I make my way over to Doc's office, in the middle of the hall, between Exam Rooms 4 and 5. The door is open, and I walk in but stop right at the entrance. He's sitting behind his desk, typing on his laptop, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Hey, Erin," he says. "Come in."

"Hey," I say. "I take another step forward and stop again. "I emailed you the summary of today," I say. I then proceed to give him the highlights, and he listens thoughtfully, nodding every once in a while, his pointer fingers steepled and pressed against his lips.

"What would I do without you?" he asks me when I'm finished.

I give him my most impish grin. "It is bonus season, after all."

He laughs out loud, and it's a nice sound. "You're not wrong," he says. That's when I notice the bouquet of flowers resting on top of the set of file cabinets beside his desk.

"Going on a date?" I ask.

Doc grins. "Something like that."

"Where to?" People might think I'm trying to get with my boss, and to that, I roll my eyes: in reality, there is no shortage of restaurants in New York City, and I'm always on the lookout for a new favorite place.

"Ammos," he says. "You been?"

I take out my phone and google it: it's a Greek restaurant on Sixth Ave known for its authentic coastal Crete food and an intimate, taverna style interior. According to Google, the restaurant had opened just five months prior, and it's already gotten a rave review in The New Yorker. Good enough for me. I star the search. "I will now," I say.

"I'll let you know how it is."

"Have fun." I pocket my phone. "But not too much because you have a C-section tomorrow morning at six."

Doc laughs again. "You're the best, Erin."

"I know," I say.

-

My apartment is a one-bed on the tenth floor of a high-rise in the Upper West Side. When you enter, the kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances and a marble island, is to your immediate left. Across from the kitchen is the closet where a short hall splits off into the bathroom and my bedroom. My bedroom is large, enough space for me to do my Pilates if I can't make it to my class. My bed is a King, pushed up against the wall under a canvas painting of various shades of reds and golds, my favorite colors.

Outside my bedroom and past the kitchen is the living area, which is complete with a leather sofa, a jute rug, and a glass coffee table with a short stack of books and a Diptyque candle in the scent Ambre, my favorite. A Samsung OLED flatscreen takes up residence on a black wooden stand across from the sofa. Next to the sofa and with the view of the surrounding buildings is my desk and where I currently sit, polishing a platinum band of a six carat Marquise diamond engagement ring that will, in a week's time, grace the ET-like finger of a newly-engaged Isadora Dearing, philanthropist and fashion extraordinaire.

I don't have my own separate studio, and, honestly, as much as it would be incredibly nice to have one, I have grown to enjoy this part of my routine, sitting here, dressed in booty shorts and a ratty T, hunched like Quasimodo in the twilit hours of the greatest city on Earth. My favorite candle is lit, my hair is twirled around a silk headband for heatless waves, and my monitor is blaring the news, inches from my face.

"...has not yet been identified, but her body was found on Grand Street at ten thirty five this evening. Authorities have been alerted and believe that, based on recent similar events in the city, as well as the victim profile, The Barbie Slayer has struck again..."

I pause. Grand Street? I've lived in Manhattan all my life that the map materializes before my eyes; Grand Street is just mere blocks away from Sixth Ave. Wasn't Doc meeting his date there? I shake my head. New York City is a bustling city; anything can happen anywhere, anytime. Just last week, a crazed gunman shot down a medical student in Hells' Kitchen in broad daylight. A serial killer is concerning, yes, but hardly news in a city like this one.

Also, what kind of a name was "The Barbie Slayer"? Such a mouthful. If I were a serial killer, I would want something succinct and cool, like, Eclipse, or Slade, or, I glance down at the ring in my hand, Diamond.

The news cuts to commercial, and I listen mindlessly as I buff away on the band. By the time I'm finished with the ring, it's half past midnight. My shoulders ache, and my lower back is screaming, but the ring scintillates. Isadora Dearing will be one lucky bitch.

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A/N:
Only 1 chapter in, and I'm having a blast writing Erin lmao. She's terrible but so entertaining. What do y'all think of her? And, don't worry, we'll be learning more about Adam very soon...

Don't forget to vote if you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading.