I threw my bag down onto the table, my keys dropping into the bowl that held spare change and forgotten keepsakes. Kicking off my shoes, I watched them land in the pile of jumbled footwear under the table. The air around me was still and slightly sticky, a product of the closed windows and the humidity that was threatening my safe haven from the gaps in the window framework. My hair hung limp and dejected against my neck, the curls I had meticulously made this morning wilting in the summer haze that had fallen across the city.
I went to the window, pushing up with insane force to let the fresher air in. The heat had everything swelling, the moisture soaking into every building and testing the patience of the inhabitants. Doors wouldn't open, or windows wouldn't shut, and I'd frequently hear the exclamations of disgust from the upper and lower apartments. Choice words would fly from their mouths, and every once in a while a child would exclaim and call them out on their mishap, or even try to mimic them.
My neighborhood was one of relative peace and quiet. Average cars parked on the street, most of the houses on either side were brownstones with three floors or more. The larger ones, converted from old warehouses or offices, had industrial elevators with the grate doors and the hand-held lever that guided it between floors. I was a lucky recipient of such a contraption. It was cramped, dark, and stank of nesting animals. There was one dim bulb, and the lever would get stuck more often than not, sending the rider into a panic. Cursing and kicking would ensue, and when it decided to cooperate, the heavy box would lurch down, free falling some 10 feet or more, sending the rider into a further state of terror. More than once I fell to the cool and stable ground outside of the metal death box and kissed it, more dramatic than necessary but still satisfying and calming.
Even this morning, the elevator malfunctioned, dropping two floors and sending me hurling into the lobby as quickly as I could before it continued down to the basement. Luckily, I hadn't dropped my coffee mug in my rush out, and made it to the subway with a minute to spare.
I sat down, tucking my paper between my knees as I rummaged through my bag for my iPod. Eclectic and off-kilter, it was my distraction from the mundane. It acted as a barrier for me, effectively cutting off my connection to the outside chaos. It soothed and prepared me for the hectic days I spent running around the news center, the fly-away looking journalist with too sensible clothes and too quiet voice. I was in charge, positionally, but on a daily basis I was challenged and then ignored. The bigwigs on the top floor loved my ideas each month, but they never came through, my pieces being pushed aside in favor of publicity grabbers that were gobbled up by the media-frenzied masses. Instead, my thought-provoking and literarily stimulating articles appeared in the back of the magazine. I had a small following, and a few people sent letters or emails to me to comment on my work or debate my results. I felt lucky to even be noticed, so I didn't complain, but secretly I wanted more.
People always say you have to look the part, and that presentation was key. I was dowdy looking. My hair was long and brown, uninspiring in its cut and color. It was a natural color. I'd never processed it, though the sun would add some reds and maples, if I ever went outside. My eyes were pretty enough, a shining greenish-blue, but my bangs tended to cover them up, and I liked it that way. I wasn't tall. Maybe 5 foot 7 or so. Practically no boobs and very little hips, there was nothing about me that pulled in any attention. My legs were long, disproportionate to my torso, but I had always heard that it was a good thing. My ass was fairly flat, but I never dressed to accentuate any of me few good traits. My clothes were loose and comfortable, though still professional looking. Dress slacks and button up shirts made up the majority of my wardrobe, with sweats and t shirts for my casual clothes, which only saw the inside of my loft. Every once in a while, I wore my favorite blue top, the dipping neckline and fitted sleeves the only fancy thing I owned.
The fancy shirt got pulled out once a month, always on a Friday. I would receive catcalls on the subways platform, and the boys from editing would come down and pretend to proofread my grammatically flawless article just to try and see what goods I had to offer. I would blush and hide my face, and they would laugh and make rude comments as they walked away.
Today was no different, and I was happy to reach my apartment as the sun was setting over the skyline. The beautiful colors lit up the apartment and shined down on the hardwood floors, turning the room into a warm rainbow of light.
Finally getting the window halfway open, I went to the fridge and grabbed the pot of last night's risotto. I turned on the gas stove and placed the pot on the burner, preferring the non-radiation method of reheating my leftovers. I took a mason glass and the bottle of red wine down from the shelf and poured a glass, setting a place for myself at the island that served as a dinner table. It's not as though I didn't have the space to put a table, but I lacked the friends and sociable attitude necessary to have people over. Eating by myself was comfort I both relished and detested. Even when I went out, I was a loner, sitting on the far stool at the bar, nursing my drink and ignoring the other patrons. I envied the pretty girls and how well they were able to flirt and communicate with the people around them. I had all the words I needed in my head, but when it came time to speak them, my mouth refused to work, drying out and leaving me spluttering and running away in embarrassment.
I look up in time from my painful recollections and notice that I need to stir the risotto, since it's in danger of sticking hopelessly to the pan. I do, and plate it a moment later. I turn to the island and remember that in my haste I forgot to turn off the stove. I set the plate down roughly and spin quickly to turn the gas off. Turning back to my food, I realize my plate hit my glass of wine, knocking it over and dumping the contents across the top of the island. The wine is now dripping down from the edge of the counter, staining the pale wood. I bent down, tugging the dishrag from the handle of the oven with me, and began to mop up the mess.
I stood back up and threw the towel into the hamper under sink. Sighing, I put the wine back on the shelf. If I knocked over the first glass, I figured it was a sign that I wasn't supposed to have one.
This evening was going down hill, and fast, and I was damned if I would let it. I grabbed the risotto and plopped down onto my futon couch. Snagging the remote, I turned on the small TV in the corner and flipped on the news. The top stories floated across the large living room, the stocks ran across the bottom of the screen, and my eyelids drooped in resignment to the long day. My plate lay flat across my stomach, my grip on the remote was slack. I hadn't even taken a bite of my reheated meal, but somehow that didn't bother me. Mentally, I was too tired to readjust, or even place the dish on the coffee table. I didn't care that the food might get on the couch, the floor, or even me. I didn't mind that the plate might lose its perch and plummet to the ground. I couldn't be bothered that it might shatter into tiny pieces. I wasn't even concerned with the possibility that I might spend tomorrow morning picking shards of ceramic dinnerware out of my feet.
My biggest concern was falling asleep quickly, and staying that way until the overwhelming exhaustion left my bones. And I fell asleep. And I slept. Until my body was jarred awake by something much louder and unsettling than the paper hitting my apartment door.