Leslie looked down at the page in her hands. The top half had been eared by her mascara laced tears, but the other half was still legible. Leslie read this half, and was shocked to find the story was different this time.
Larry Phields worked at the mall outlet of his travel agency, which saw so little business that a more creative mind than Larry's would have concluded that the travel agency must have been laundering money for some manner of criminal enterprise to stay out of the red. On most days he eat a sack lunch he had prepared the morning prior, but today had accidentally driven onto the freeway with his sack lunch still perched on the roof of his car. The lunch was now long since a smear on the freeway cement, and Larry was forced to resort to eating at the food court.
"Hey," Leslie exclaimed. "What do you mean, not creative?" She asked, a bit offended, as if the paper would answer. "It's a tough economy, I'm lucky to have anything."
She folded it up and put it into her purse. She rifled through it, muttering to herself. "Makeup, tampon, tissues, housekeys, phone, wallet..." She pulled out the wallet and found her ID. "Leslie James." There was an unfamiliar address on it.
"Okay, so I'm not panicking...that's something," she continued to talk to herself. "I've become a character. But...there's no story. Nothing happened. It ended after the security guard asked me if I'm all right. So...what happens now?"
She had no idea.
