“Don’t be an asshole. But no, she didn’t recognize me. It was over a decade ago.”
“My bad.” He holds his hands up in that ‘don’t hit me’ gesture. “Ron Ron, I think this is a golden opportunity for you. You liked her a lot before Vanessa?—”
“Good night, I’m not discussing this with you.” I hold the bar door open with one hand. “I have to be at the law firm at seven.Don’t ask why, it’s one of Minji’s requirements.” I make a beeline for my BMW.
“Take me home then!”
“Gray. I’m not driving to the Upper East Side when I live in Greenwich. Get a fucking cab.”
“Pretty please!”
“No, Grayson. I’m not driving thirty minutes to take you home. Traffic is gonna be killer and then I’ll have to find parking.”
“Lazy fuck!” he shouts.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Text me when you get home.” I look over my shoulder to see him already flagging down a cab. Slipping into the driver’s seat, I let out a frustrated sigh. I’m more than a little annoyed at her absurd demand that I show up at the ass crack of dawn. Little does she know, I’ve been dealing with stubborn people my entire life. Being an orphan teaches you persistence in ways nothing else can. You learn to find the cracks in even the toughest walls.
I pull out of the parking lot, my thoughts still circling around Minji. It’s bizarre how life works sometimes. Ten years ago, we used to argue about the best brand of ramen at three in the morning, and now she’s a senior associate at one of the top firms in Manhattan, eviscerating opposition and making it look easy. Part of me still wants to remind her about that time she made me ramen with a raw egg and extra scallions, or the time we fell asleep in the library basement with our textbooks as pillows. But it’s clearly not in the cards. Not when she looks at me and sees nothing but a professional inconvenience, not even a ghost of a memory.
I wakeup before my alarm; the kind of nervous anticipation that makes your stomach feel like it’s digesting thumbtacks. I throw on my best ‘I’m a professional’ outfit—navy blazer, crisp white shirt, jeans that don’t have a single coffee stain—and grab a double espresso from the café downstairs. The world outside is comically quiet, the sun barely up, and the city still hung over from the night before.
By 6:30 AM, I’m already in Midtown, parked in front of the glass tower that houses Parras Law Office. The lobby is cathedral-high, echoing with footsteps but otherwise empty. Even the security guard looks half-asleep, his badge crooked and his eyelids drooping. I flash my temp badge and head for the elevators.
The elevator hums up to the floor, then opens onto a corridor lined with abstract art and soundproof doors. The place smells like lemon cleaner and ambition. For a second, I consider just sitting in the waiting area and doomscrolling until 7 AM, but then I catch a glimpse of movement down the hallway.
Someone is already here.
That’s when I spot the janitor, vacuuming the plush charcoal carpet, earbuds in and bobbing his head to a silent beat. He looks up, gives me a polite nod, and goes back to work. I wander past the empty reception desk, past the glass-walled conference rooms with their marble tables, and finally toward Minji’s office.
I pause outside her office, glance around, and figure I might as well start shadowing her from the comfort of her designer couch. It sure beats loitering around the empty hallway like a lost puppy. Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, all prepared to wait it out in solitude.
But she’s here.
Standing in the middle of her office without a shirt on. Her pink bra is on full display. Her black hair spills loosely around her shoulders and down her back. A woman in her position might be mortified, but Minji gives me a look that can only be described as murderous.
“Have you heard of knocking?” She tries to shield herself with one arm, but it only makes things more interesting. If only she remembered that I know exactly what’s underneath that bra and that cute crescent moon birthmark on the inside of her thigh.
My gaze flits around the room, unraveling the morning’s mystery. Her beige sweater, soaked with what could only be coffee, lies in a soggy heap on her leather chair. A paper cup from the downstairs café stands as the culprit on her desk, a puddle of its contents spreading across dark wood like a crime scene. And there it is, just an arm’s length away from me, a fresh shirt, folded and ready to rescue her from this wardrobe crisis.
“Would you like me to bring it to you?” I point to the shirt.
“I would like for you to get out and stop staring at my breasts,” she snaps, as she reaches for the soaked sweater, attempting to cover herself. “And stop licking your lips.” Her eyebrows are nearly joined as one. “I’m not dessert. Now. Get. Out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I reverse out of her office and the door thuds shut behind me, the sound final and, frankly, deserved.
Out in the corridor, I pause, consider my options, and realize I could leave but that will give Minji more ammo. I park myself at the empty desk closest to her office, heart pounding, barely resisting the urge to doomscroll through my phone, instead opening my battered laptop.
I stare at the Word document for my work-in-progress. The cursor blinks, impatient and judgmental. I try to write, but thecharacters who were lively yesterday now feel dull and stiff. I think about writing about what just happened, but I choose not to. Minutes pass slowly. All I hear is the distant hum of the janitor’s vacuum and the soft ping of the elevator each time an early employee arrives. The office begins to fill as people arrive one by one. Each person looks at me, then at Minji’s closed door, and quickly looks away. By eight, a small scene of activity has formed: muffled phone conversations in the glass cubicles, the clicking of designer heels, the smell of coffee and reheated takeout in the break room microwave.
I watch as a parade of paralegals and junior attorneys pass by, some tossing me polite half-smiles, others avoiding me as if I might bite. One in particular caught my eye—tall, curly brunette hair, glasses perched on her nose, and an outfit that is so color-coordinated it borders on intimidating. She stops at the end of the hallway, looks me up and down, and makes a note in her phone before vanishing into a copy room. I’m not paranoid, but I’m one hundred percent sure I’ve just landed on some kind of internal office watchlist.
I check the time, 8:23 AM, and there’s still no sign of Minji. Maybe she’s calling HR right now, drafting the world’s shortest termination memo. I try to distract myself by studying the office décor: floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of Manhattan, abstract paintings that probably cost a shit ton of money, and the faintest hint of what could only be a lavender candle burning somewhere nearby. There are worse places to have a meltdown.
At 9:06, a pair of voices erupts from the hallway. I glance up to see a group of three paralegals clustered around the water cooler, already deep in animated conversation. One of them—the tall, curly-haired one—leans against the counter and points in my direction. The other two, both of whom could moonlightas Instagram influencers, follow her gaze and then collectively burst into a fit of suppressed giggles.
There’s only one way to survive this kind of situation, and that’s to pretend you are utterly oblivious. I focus on my laptop again and the words begin to flow. I’m so absorbed in the moment that I barely notice when the office is suddenly bustling, every cubicle now occupied, the sounds of business-as-usual echoing through the open space.
Another hour passes. I’m up to three thousand words and, for a while, I almost forget where I am. At least until the copy room door swings open and the curly-haired paralegal appears at my side. She must’ve been standing there for a while because I’m so deep in my thoughts that I jump a little when she speaks.
