Diaries of a Coffee Slut

Kitty Fontane absentmindedly shuffled the stacks of memos littering her cramped cubicle. The office building, one of the oldest in New Orleans, dated back to the 1800’s.
Light filtered through the unwashed window depositing a layer of fine dust and dead mosquito parts, encased in cobwebs - sort of like a poor man’s King Tut. Like I said, it was an “old” building.
This was not what she had in mind when she took the job, a second-tier admin to a second-rate manager. Expectations were high when she confidently strode in on her first day, but as months ticked by, her cubicle might as well have had bars on it. No telling how many low-on-the-totem-pole “Girl Fridays” sat at her desk wondering when they would break out. There was nowhere to go but down.
Kitty’s stilettos kept metronomic time as she climbed the stairs to her boss’s ample suite. Resignation letter, folded neatly in hand, was the ticket to a dream she’d savored for years. The dream of owning the best coffeehouse in New Orleans and she knew exactly who to call to get the ball rolling.