Shaking my head as if to dislodge the pressure in my skull, I get up and head to the bathroom to take a shower. I begin to feel more like myself as the hot water massages my scalp. I even decide to use some of the fancy hair treatment my aunt Debbie gave me last Christmas. It guarantees to rehydrate and add bounce. I could definitely use some rehydration today.
After I’m showered, I walk to my closet for the clothes I set aside last night to wear today. Another time-saving micro-habit. I dress quickly and make my bed, taking time to arrange every last decorative pillow exactly how I like them. Making my bed was one of my most hated chores from my youth. I always told myself that when I lived on my own, I wouldn’t bother to make my bed every morning. Now that I’m older, I’ve realized that a made bed is so much nicer to crawl into at the end of the day.
I move to the kitchen and select my favorite mug. I have dozens of mugs, but I always seem to come back to an old ceramic one that used to belong to my grandmother. The brown glaze and orange flowers are enough to transport you back to the 1970’s. There is a small chip on the rim, but I think it adds to its character. Once my coffee is poured, I pack my pre-prepared lunch and snacks from the fridge.
I lazily make my way back to the bathroom to finish getting ready for work. I’ve never been able to do much with my hair. I used to get highlights in college, but I was never happy with them. Two years ago, I asked a stylist to dye it as close as she could to its natural chestnut brown, and I haven’t colored it since. It’s long but thin and after a quick blow-dry, I decide to put it back in a neat low ponytail like always. I apply a light mineral foundation and finish with a few swipes of mascara. Makeup has never been something I gave much time or effort to, either, at least not for everyday wear. Dressed and ready, I pour the rest of my coffee into my travel mug and head out the door.
I leave my apartment and deadbolt the door. I make it halfway up the hall before turning around and double-checking that I did in fact deadbolt the door. Once satisfied, I take the elevator with a slight needling of guilt. While it’s true that I only live on the second floor, my bags are kind of heavy and the elevator is right there. I’ll start taking the stairs, eventually. Also, I do walk two blocks to my office every day, so it’s not like I’m completely sedentary.
The early morning air is cool, but by the time I walk home, it will have warmed up considerably. The forecast is calling for clear skies and sun for the rest of the week. I’ve lived in Boston for almost four years now and September is my favorite month of the year. I think it’s the change in the air once the humidity of summer finally breaks. Walking to work during the all too frequent heat warnings can be brutal. Even if I did own a car, it would take me longer to find parking than it would to walk most places. The city also has a great public transit system that I take advantage of on occasion.
I enter Skyview Plaza just before 8:00 a.m. It’s a twenty-six story building, mostly dedicated to tech businesses. I take the elevator to the twelfth floor and emerge at the Advantage Consulting main foyer. I’ve worked here for the past two years in a junior business analyst position, and I’ve done well for myself. My critical thinking and ability to communicate has gotten me excellent performance reviews. If all goes to plan, I will be in line for a promotion this year.
“Good morning, Kayla,” I say pleasantly upon entering the foyer. The twenty-year-old receptionist briefly looks up from her computer to acknowledge me before returning her eyes to the screen in front of her. This may appear to some as a dedication to her work, but I can easily see as I walk past her desk that she is looking at an online gossip rag.
The office feels more sterile than usual, which I attribute to the fumes coming from the freshly painted hallways. I wonder if they’ll get to my corner of the office soon. My cube of an office could definitely use some brightening up. Not that I’m complaining. I have a window that gets a surprising amount of light during the day, and a row of plants on the windowsill that are thriving. At certain times during sunny days, the sun shines so brightly that I’m able to kill the overhead fluorescent lighting. It’s glorious.
“Are you serious!?” My co-worker Sara’s exclamation interrupts my thoughts as I approach the entrance to the staff room. “I love that band! You should have invited me!” I don’t need to see her face to know that she’s doing her strangely sensual puppy-dog face. She’s pouting but trying to look hot at the same time.
“Next time.” Andrew chuckles while trying to pivot himself out of the corner Sara has backed him into. He spots me as I’m walking by. “Hey, Liz. Good weekend?”
My heart pumps an extra beat. Lovely, lovely Andrew. Quiet, but not awkward. Handsome, but not gorgeous. He reminds me of a model whose photo comes with the picture frame. He is always put together and put together well. I may be harboring a small infatuation for him. Even if he does call me “Liz,” a nickname I have never cared for.
Andrew and Sara are the only two other analysts under thirty. Sara, a petite auburn-haired nymph, was brought on almost five months ago and immediately attached herself to Andrew like some sort of barnacle.
“Great, thanks for asking!” I reply with a bright smile. They don’t need to know I cleaned my closet, reorganized my pantry, and fell asleep toThe Great British Baking Showon both Friday and Saturday night. “Yourself?”
Andrew extradites himself from Sara and falls into step with me. “Yeah. Went to see a buddy of mine’s band Saturday night at Rutters.”
“He’s going to take me next time,” Sara says, struggling to catch up with us. Her charcoal skirt is fitted snuggly around her thighs, making it difficult for her slender legs to take long strides.
“Maybe you can come too,” Andrew says, checking his phone as he continues up the hallway.
“Maybe!” We’d arrived at my office. “I’ve got some emails to respond to. I’ll see you guys in the conference room.” We have a weekly progress meeting on Monday mornings at nine.
“See you then!” Sara calls, already leading him away.
I really like Andrew. He’s smart and sweet and doesn’t appear to have any of the characteristics that turn me off. And he’s nice looking. More than nice looking. Ash blond hair that he keeps short and styled. Pale blue eyes set on his perfectly proportioned face. I understand why Sara is so smitten with him and part of me finds joy in the fact that the feeling is clearly not reciprocated. Not that he has ever shown any particular interest in me either, but not flat-out rejection either.
The meeting is par for the course. New account profiles and existing account updates. There is talk about an upcoming corporate fitness challenge designed to build morale and teamwork. Apparently, more details will follow in the coming weeks. The thought of my coworkers knowing how out of shape I am sends a wave of panic through me and I commit to taking the stairs when I get home.
My day goes by in the usual manner. I have one other meeting after the weekly briefing. After that’s taken care of, I work tirelessly at my desk for the remainder of the day. I eat my lunch while analysing data and only leave my office to use the washroom. I do all this knowing that I’m an ergonomist’s expert’s dream example of “what-not-to-do.”
By the time 4:00 p.m. rolls around, I am more than ready to power down my computer. I quickly grab my things and leave my office, already looking forward to watching Mary Berry hunt for soggy-bottomed tarts while I’m eating supper in my yoga pants. The afternoon sun is strong, and I don’t need my jacket on the way home. I walk slowly, enjoying the slight September breeze, and arrive at my building in less than ten minutes. I’ve lived here since I started my master’s program and I’ve been really happy. It’s not like the shiny new apartment buildings with high ceilings and much higher rents, but it’s well-maintained and quiet.
I huff up the two-flights of stairs, hating every moment of it, but I must concede there is a small feeling of accomplishment when I make it to my floor. I have barely made it through my apartment door when my cell phone comes to life at the bottom of my purse. I squeal when Lizzo’sI Love You Bitchstarts blaring, letting me know it’s Rilla calling.
“You programming that ringtone on my phone remains your greatest accomplishment,” I tell her when I answer.
“My greatest accomplishment, to date,” she corrects.
“To what do I owe the honor of a Monday evening call? Did someone die?” Even though I’m joking, I’m momentarily hit with anxiety. “Oh god. Did someone actually die?”
“I love how your mind goes from calm to worse-case-scenario in two seconds flat. No one died, babe. Well, I guess that’s not technically true. Lots of people have died. People are dying as I speak. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. What’s up?” We hadn’t talked on the phone in a few weeks, but we text regularly. We spent all of Saturday evening discussing a guy she was considering dating. They tend bar together, and I wonder if she’s calling to update me on that.
“Josh is what’s up. He’s moving to Boston.”
