“My samples!” I wail, pointing at the tracks.

He looks confused. “Your makeup? Sure, whatever,” he says dismissively. “I can replace it.”

As he digs in his pocket like he’s reaching for a wallet, the concrete starts shaking beneath our feet.

Shit. The train!

Before I can think twice, I lunge towards the edge of the platform, determined to save my samples. But before I can climb down and rescue them, Hot Guy yanks me back.

“What the hell are you doing?

“Let me go!” I struggle as the rumbling grows louder.

His grip on me tightens. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Before I can protest again, the train lunges out of the shadows. It speeds past, crushing my dreams underneath the rails.

Or at least, that’s how it feels to me.

I let out a wail of disappointment. Hot Guy releases me, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “It’s no big deal. It’s only makeup.”

“Only makeup?” I repeat, turning to him in disbelief. “ONLY MAKEUP? Are you serious right now?” I don’t even wait for him to reply before demanding: “I didn’t just buy those from the drugstore, I made them, from scratch! Do you even know how long I’ve scrimped, and saved, and slathered anti-aging foundation on blue-rinsed ladies to afford to make those lipsticks? Do you realize what I’ve sacrificed, to try and make this happen? My entire family thinks I’m crazy!” I cry. “‘Move back home, Callie,’ ‘Come work at the salon again, Callie.’ ‘You’re wasting your most fertile years, Callie,’” I mimic my mom and older sisters’ familiar refrain. “But you wouldn’t understand anything about sacrifice, would you, Mr. Fancy Pants, with your designer clothes and brand-new phone, and antique watch?”

He takes a step back, surprised. “Since when is this my fault?”

I put my hands on my hips, mostly to keep myself from smacking his annoyingly well-formed chest. “Since you just don’t get it! Most of us can’t whip out our platinum Amex when something goes wrong. We’re here busting our butts, trying to build a business and make our dreams come true. Until some rich jackass comes along and smashes months of hard labor in a few seconds, and all he can think to say is, “No big deal!’”

I pause for breath, panting. And that’s when I realize: people are staring. At me. In horror. Like I just went dumpster diving again. But this time, I don’t even have my hard-won samples to take the edge off, just a slow, creeping embarrassment that starts to flush the back of my neck.

Hot Guy backs up again, looking at me warily. “Look, I’m sorry, OK. For… Whatever it is you have going on. The offer stands to replace your stuff.” He thrusts a business card into my hand and then backs away, palms up.

My anger drains away as swiftly as it came. And then there’s a rumble, and the train departs, and I’m left standing there, empty-handed except for the guy’s card and my total embarrassment.