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GEORGIA
“The problem with you,” the woman in front of me says to her friend, “is that you’re so desperate to believe in love that you lose all sense of judgment.”
“Of course I believe in love,” her companion replies, her voice muffled by the scarf twisted twice around her neck. The edge is so high it reaches the tip of her nose. “Doesn’t everybody? I’m not sure I’ve heard a single soul say it doesn’t exist.” She pauses for a moment to lower the scarf to blow her nose into a tissue. “Don’t you believe in love?” she asks.
“Well, yes. But I’m not the one looking for it in all the wrong places.” The first woman pauses to check her phone. We’re standing to the side of the coffee counter I’m a regular at waiting for our orders.
The shop is open to the elements and today Manhattan has decided that snow is a good idea. Which is why we’re all huddled under the canopy as we wait for our achingly crafted orders, our desperation for caffeine outweighing our need for warmth.
“What kind of wrong places?” her friend asks. “It’s not my fault there are so many idiots on the apps.”
I incline my head, trying very hard not to look like I’m listening. Not only because it’s nice to know I’m not the only one with problems, but also because I’m interested in the answer.
For personal reasons.
“Remember Jeb?” the first woman says, her voice lowering enough that I have to lean forward to hear her. “He wasn’t from an app.”
“We agreed never to talk about him.” Her friend’s voice is even lower. There’s an edge to it that tells me there’s a story. And I’m so invested in what Jeb did that warrants his name to never be spoken again that I almost miss my name being called by the barista.
“Cappuccino for Anna,” he shouts, holding out the white cardboard cup with the shop’s minimalistic logo on one side and my name in black sharpie on the other.
Okay so, strictly speaking it’s not my name. But for five minutes every morning I pretend it is, because he got it wrong two years ago and I’ve never corrected him. It’s kind of nice being somebody else, at least until I walk into my office.
I like to imagine Anna has her life together. She lives in a bijou Brownstone in Brooklyn with her husband who adores her, along with their two kids and a nanny, and a wolfhound named Benji that they adopted from a rescue shelter when they were newly married and infatuated with each other.
Georgia, on the other hand, definitely doesn’t have her life together. Right now she’s making up stories about somebody who doesn’t exist. And referring to herself in third person.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the cup. Steam escapes through the little hole in the plastic lid. I lift it and blow, watching the vapor dissipate.
“No problem. Have a good day, Anna.” He beams at me. And I beam right back. Or maybe Anna does. I’m not sure anymore.
It’s only a two minute walk to my office from the coffee shop, but I still manage to end up with a dusting of snow on the shoulders of my coat. I brush it off before I step inside the high rise that houses Meridien, the monthly magazine I’ve been a writer for since I graduated from college nine years ago.
The magazine offices are on the third floor, and I opt to take the stairs rather than the elevator today. Mostly because there’s a crowd waiting at the cars and I’m already late. I sip and walk, needing the caffeine injection before I face the day, because I know it’s going to be super busy. I have tons to finish before I leave for London next week.
The office is buzzing by the time I walk in. I take my coat off and hang it up on the hook outside of my cubicle. Despite my efforts, a few flakes of snow land on the polished floor next to my desk.
“It’s still snowing then,” Beth, my cubicle partner, says. Then she sees the name written on my coffee cup and laughs. “Still haven’t told him?”
I wrinkle my nose and swallow a mouthful of frothy milk. “Nope.”
I sit down in my chair and open my laptop, ready to get the day started. I’m about to swallow another mouthful of coffee when Beth says, “Don’t get too comfortable. We have to be in the conference room in two minutes.”
I frown and check my watch. I’m going to be working until midnight if I’m not careful. “What for?”
She shrugs. “All staff meeting. Mandatory attendance.”
“Ugh.” I open my inbox and sure enough there’s an email from management. Looks like the big cheeses are coming over from head office – which is in the high-rise building across the road. “It doesn’t say what it’s about,” I murmur, frowning.
“Which means it’s bad news.” Beth groans. She’s just rented a new apartment that’s already stretching her budget. “I swear if they take away our bonus I’m going to scream. I’m depending on that.”
“Me, too,” I say. Two weeks vacationing in London doesn’t come cheap. Not even after I diverted money from the wedding deposits I’d paid into my escape fund. When I get back two days after Christmas, I’m going to have the mother of all credit card bills to pay off.
I don’t even get to check the rest of my emails, let alone my calendar to see if any other meetings have been added, because everybody is already filing into the boardroom, so I pick up my coffee and do the same.
There are way more people than chairs, so I walk over to the corner and lean against the bookcase, sipping the rest of my cappuccino as the buzz of conversation fills the room.
