Rookie Mistake Excerpt © Dakota Madison 2016
There’s a knock on the door of my apartment. I don’t want to see anyone in my current state so I ignore it. Maybe if I’m lucky whoever it is will go away.
Apparently I’m not that lucky.
There’s more knocking.
I’ve lived in my tiny studio apartment for the last five years. I realize it’s not much, but it’s what I can afford on a public servant’s salary in very expensive Southern California. I prefer to think of my closet-sized dwelling as cozy. I work crazy hours so it’s not like I’m home that much anyway. I basically just need a place to crash and shower.
I’ve been crying for the last five hours and twenty-eight minutes. I’ve gone through six boxes of heavy two-ply tissues that are now scattered all over my living room floor.
The person at the door isn’t going to give up without a fight. He or she has decided to start pounding.
“Who…is…it?” I manage to chirp between heavy sobs.
“It’s your sister from another mister,” a female voice replies.
I don’t have to open the door to know it’s my best friend, Zoe. Her heavy Brooklyn accent definitely stands out on the West coast.
I grab a tissue and blow my nose. Then I toss it on the floor to join the rest of its former box mates, used then so recklessly discarded. 
At that moment I realize those tissues are a metaphor for how I’m feeling…cast aside like unwanted trash.
I somehow manage to pick myself up from my daybed and stagger towards the door. I feel as lifeless as a zombie and I don’t think I look much better.   
I know I shouldn’t glance at myself in the mirror. Seeing the horror show I’ve become will only make me feel worse. I’ve had a complete and total emotional breakdown.
It’s hard not to sneak a peek at myself when the mirror is hanging right next to the front door.
Ugh. I look a lot worse than I imagined. My long dark hair is askew. It looks like I’ve just walked through a wind tunnel. And my normally large dark eyes are red and swollen from crying.
“If you run away screaming I won’t be offended,” I warn Zoe as I open the door.
She looks me up and down. “I’m not going to lie. You’re a wreck.”
She pushes past me into my apartment. Unlike the disaster otherwise known as my hair, Zoe’s hair always looks perfect.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “You’re normally so uptight and guarded. It takes a lot for you to even crack a smile. You’ve obviously been crying. That’s not like you, tough girl.”
“I’m having an emotional crisis.”
“Clearly.” She plops down on my daybed. “Let me guess. Guy trouble.”
I sniffle. “Noah broke up with me. He told me he was tired of having his balls in my purse. I don’t even own a purse.”
She dismisses my concerns with a wave of her hand. “What does he know about balls? If anything he needs to grow a pair. You’re better off without him.”
“I thought he was the one.” I start sobbing again.
Zoe grabs a tissue from the nearly empty box and hands it to me. If I don’t implement some tissue conservation measures immediately I’ll soon be wiping my nose on a dishtowel.
“In the grand scheme of things you were with Noah for like a minute. Another minute and you’ll get over him. A minute after that and you’ll be with someone else.”
“We were together almost three months. I thought he loved me.”
“He just wanted a garage to park that long black limousine of his in every night.”
“He’s already found another garage to park in,” I snivel. “I guess she stays open all night. He never has to wait for his space.”
“I hope her garage door closes on him and whacks his limo in half. What a dick.”
“I’ve become a serial dumpee.”
“What does that mean?”
“Guys seem to be excited to go out with me at first, but after a month or two they split. I don’t think they can handle my job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s exactly what they tell me. They can’t handle dating a police officer.”

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