March 20, 2000

You’re running late; your poor, brand-new, and incredibly expensive heels are struggling to keep up with your brisk pace along the streets of New York.

"Shit... I know... I'll make it to the column in five minutes if I can just catch a cab—"

The call with your boss at the publishing house was cut short when you bumped into her—Natalie Scatorccio. She was wearing jeans and a band tee, looking at you as if you were nothing more than an annoying obstacle on the sidewalk.

"Hey—" you start.

"Watch where you're going, princess," she says—arrogant and, strangely enough... attractive? Then she hops into the first taxi that’s appeared on the street in fifteen minutes. Shit.

"Hey! I need that cab more than yo—" She’s gone. What an asshole...

A week later, you’re at some ridiculous party your friends dragged you to. Bad music, cheap booze, people acting like lunatics. All you want is your apartment—or maybe a really well-made martini. On your way to the bathroom—already bracing yourself for a huge line and a foul stench—you—unbelievably—bump into someone. And, unbelievably... it’s her... again.

"Well, princess, you really don't watch where you're going, do you?"

You couldn't believe your eyes.