a/n: I'm not confident about using the second person, but I liked it better than using 'she' and so forth. I'm quite fond of this story, because it's a new spin on the 'what if...' glimpse into the future. Kinda-sorta, anyway.
Slip on the heels, over the sheer pantyhose.
You don't wince in discomfort at the feel of the pinched, pointed toes. You've grown used to it.
Grab the brief case. Stand silently for a second; let the clock tick a bit. Leave.
On the train, you allow yourself to wonder. To daydream. Did that man who was just speaking have the trace of a French accent? Is that little boy who's dashing by carrying a pink rabbit? Were those two heads of auburn hair that you saw, departing the train? And the unusually nimble fingers of the man next to you, operating his blackberry, raises your hopes until you stare into the face that is absent of glinting lenses.
You shift uncomfortably. That dark-haired man behind you is very quiet, very tall, very familiar. You resolve not to turn around. You tell yourself not to be even think about it, not to torture yourself by getting your hopes up. But you want to retain that hope anyway. And that involves not turning to see.
You turn.
The man was not who you'd hoped he was – he has a nose ring, which, frankly, alarms you just a bit, and his hair is actually bleached in spots. Talk about seeing what you want to see. But he smiles kindly at you. You smile back, even though you can hardly keep the disappointment from showing, and immediately turn around to stare at the other wall of the car.
Hopes foiled again.
You're a lawyer now, which was all you thought you ever wanted. You're well-known and respected. You're rich.
You'd always called them rich bastards, but right now you would give a lot to be their commoner again.