Pyromania

A young woman with long， dark brown hair， deep hazel eyes and skin as pale as winter snow sits by the fogged windows in the restaurant， dressed in a checkered white shirt the front tucked into a pair of well-worn black jeans， a pair of brown rectangular glasses perched on her nose.

Polly Nichols， a Whitechapel whore， was profoundly grateful to gin. ~Gin helped her. It cured her. It took away her hunger and chased the chill from her joints. It stilled the aching in her rotten teeth and numbed the slicing pains she got every time she took a piss. It made her feel better than any man ever had. It calmed her. It soothed her.

She picks up a mug from the table in front of her， her eyes continue to read the thick papers on her lap， raising the steaming liquid to her soft， pink lips， she cautiously takes a small sip.

Swaying drunkenly in the darkness of an alley， she raised a bottle to her lips and drained it. The alcohol burned like fire. She coughed， lost her grip on the bottle， and swore as it smashed.

In the distance， the clock at Christ Church struck two， its resonant chime muffled in the thickening fog. Polly dipped her hand into her coat pocket and felt for the coins there.

A sudden ringing from her blackberry on the table causes her to jump， and her papers fly everywhere， cursing at her clumsiness， she gets on her knees and begins to gather her papers.

This clumsy wrapped up in her own world person is me.

My name is Janetta Summers. I am the main editor at Blueburg Publishing House where I had interned when I was in university. I am twenty years old， single， a clutz with two left feet， a church mouse and a terrible bookworm.

Scrambling to get the papers from the tiled floor， I manage to locate most of the manuscript I had been reading but I can“t seem to find the last pages.

Getting up， I push my long hair behind my ear and look around the coffee house. Where are those pages?

"Excuse me，" a deep manly voice asks， a long slender finger taps me on my shoulder."I believe these are yours?"

Whirling around， I see a man in a dark blue business suit， the jacket in his arm and the missing papers of the manuscript in his other.

His rich chocolate hair that had tousled griminess which promised finesse. He had strong arched brows and his eyes a deep and catastrophic， stormy grey.

Looking down at my feet， I avoid eye contact with the stranger and take the paper out of his hand， mumbling a quick thank you， I walk back to my table， gather my stuff， pay for the tea and leave the coffee house as quick as I can， my cheeks flushed， answering my phone on the way.

"Hello?" I mumble into the phone， dodging the people on their lunch break. "Summers speaking."

"Hey， Etta，" My boss， Lucifer King， sings from the other line. "What“s my favourite editor doing?"

Smiling at the sound of my boss“s voice， I stride into a ten story office building， with Blueburg Publishing House written discreetly over the glass front doors.

I walk into the enormous – and still intimidating – glass， steel， and white sandstone lobby. Walking over to the bank of elevators past two security men.