1
ELIZABETH
Just one more day and then it’s the weekend.
That thought is the only caffeine in my system as I shove open the glass doors of Clark M & A, supposedly the crown jewel of New York City trading firms.
I’ve been here a year, which is just long enough to realize I’m basically the office courier pigeon with better shoes.
Not that I hate it. I actually like the place. I just wish people noticed me for more than my ability to pick up a phone on the first ring or carry coffee without spilling it.
“Morning,” Jackie calls as I toss my bag and coat behind the front desk. She’s already stationed with a flock of other assistants, all of them nursing lattes and trading juicy office gossip like it’s insider stock information.
Every one of them works for a “big wig,” which is the term they use with a straight face, as if they’re mob wives instead of secretaries.
They’re nice enough to me. I’m not exiled from the tribe. I’m just not quite in it either.
Standing on the outside of their little circle, I feel like I’m at the high school cafeteria again, tray in hand, waiting to see if anyone will wave me over.
Maybe if I were louder. Sharper. The type who throws elbows and takes up space. But that’s never been me.
I smile too much, hold doors too long, and people mistake kindness for weakness.
My grand plan was that this job would give me a fresh start. Instead, it feels like I’ve just reset the game and picked the same character all over again.
I grab the coffeepot, pour steaming liquid into my dented travel mug, and paste on my best “everything’s fine” smile. “Happy Friday, ladies.”
They clink cups, lean closer, and lower their voices. I catch the words “maternity leave” and “Cancún” and “Jonathan Clark,” which makes their circle ripple with a laughter I’m not invited into. I sip my coffee, burn my tongue, and tell myself that today, something has to change.
Today’s hot topic? Which assistants aren’t coming back after the new year.
It’s practically a sport for them, whispering about who’s snagging a ring, who’s getting knocked up, and who’s jetting off to “find themselves” in Bali.
I’ve never understood the thrill of gossip. Maybe because nine times out of ten, I’m the one on the menu. But if nodding along keeps me from going invisible again, I’ll play.
I do love this job. The paycheck’s kept me in rent, heat, and the occasional Sephora splurge. But sometimes I wonder: when is it my turn? When do I stop fetching cups and start getting noticed for what I can actually do?
“Well,” I announce to no one in particular, sliding in like the awkward kid at a middle school dance, “time to get to work.”
They flash polite smiles before snapping their attention back to each other, all glossy lips and clinking bracelets. My contribution? A two-second cameo in the ongoing series ofWomen Who Matter Less.
Fine. If I can’t headline, I’ll at least cater.
I duck under the table and drag out the silver tray that’s almost as big as me. Every Friday, it’s the same ritual: carafes filled, donuts stacked, caffeine and sugar offered up like holy communion to the gods upstairs.
The spread today smells like heaven and dental bills—glazed crullers, chocolate frosted, and, my personal weakness, powdered jelly that will inevitably explode down the front of my blouse if I so much as breathe wrong. It’s the coffee that warms my soul, though. I brewed it myself so I can vouch itisgood.
All of this is for Jonathan Clark’s sacred Friday meeting. The big boss himself, plus his inner circle of suits, developers, and investment bankers with teeth so white they could guide planes to land. They’ll sit around a polished table, talk about “deliverables,” and I’ll type up a summary later from the notes passed down like commandments.
Normally, someone else handles refreshments. But with half the assistants on maternity leave, honeymoon leave, or just “mental health in Miami” leave, guess who’s stuck playing hostess?
As I balance the carafes on the tray, I can’t help but wonder if this is it for me. Am I just a lifetime errand girl with better coffee skills than the average barista?
Then I think of my mother and grandmother hunched over sewing machines for decades, stitching until their fingers went numb, and I tell myself: nope. Anything’s better than that. Even if today, my biggest accomplishment is not dropping jelly on the floor.
“Careful with that tray, Lizzy,” one of the assistants sing-songs. “Don’t spill on Mr. Clark’s lap or you’ll be filing résumés by noon.”
Another leans in with a smirk. “She won’t. Coffee’s the only thing keeping her employed.”
