[Open]
Being a bicycle messenger was, among other things, a fairly isolated job; it didn't pay great, but it kept Lorelei active enough that she didn't have to go to a gym or anything. She'd been winding down one of the side streets to get to her next destination, because highways and bicycles really didn't mix and she really didn't want to end up as roadkill before she hit thirty, if ever. She didn't see the chunk of missing asphalt and wasn't holding onto the handlebars when her front wheel dropped a good inch and a half into the hole, tumbling her off sideways. It would take a bit more than a jarring fall to hurt her, though, and Lorelei picked herself up, brushing off her clothes.
She muttered under her breath and walked the bike into one of the million little grassy spots Seacouver had seemingly in lieu of sidewalks, checking her bulging cross-body bag to make sure nothing had fallen out. If she lost a package, she was pretty much screwed; scraped knuckles--and she had them--came secondary. Some days she really thought this job was going to kill her, but she had to have some sort of income, and being an intern half the day at the university library didn't quite make rent. "Oh, I so need a day off from this."
She muttered under her breath and walked the bike into one of the million little grassy spots Seacouver had seemingly in lieu of sidewalks, checking her bulging cross-body bag to make sure nothing had fallen out. If she lost a package, she was pretty much screwed; scraped knuckles--and she had them--came secondary. Some days she really thought this job was going to kill her, but she had to have some sort of income, and being an intern half the day at the university library didn't quite make rent. "Oh, I so need a day off from this."