Downstairs

I have to go to the cafe—it’s in my own office building and sometimes it’s pouring and I want a cup of coffee and, I don’t know, nothing else because quite frankly I hate their pre-made sandwich menu and salad options and pizza on flatbread at at a fast food cafe in New York is just stupid. I usually get a small soup and a slice of warm wheat bread and I sit with my work badge and my BlackBerry and sip the hot tomato bisque slowly not because I’m afraid of burning my tongue but because I’m afraid I’ll spill the creamy red soup on my dress and have to be that asshole with stuff on their clothes for the afternoon meeting I’m not prepared for. And then not only will I be the person who is noticeably—that’s the thing—not prepared, I’ll be unprepared and dirty. Ugh. I should have just gone out last night instead of staying home and watching tv. Then, at least, I’d be hung over and all of this could be blamed on the liquor and not my own general dissatisfaction for my job and what it feels like to be a bored 26 year old in an industry that maybe, just maybe, I really don’t belong in. But then my BlackBerry buzzes and I take the rest of the soup to go, upstairs, back in the cold unrelenting air conditioning and the next four years of my life.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s