13. Julia
Julia
Monday morning begins with the kind of silence that should immediately tell me something has gone terribly wrong.
There is no alarm vibrating against the nightstand, no half-conscious attempt to bargain with myself for another five minutes and no distant sound of the coffee maker downstairs because, despite owning one with a timer, I have never once managed to remember to set the damn thing the night before.
There is only pale morning light creeping around the edges of the bedroom window and the suspiciously rested feeling of someone who has slept far longer than she had any right to.
“Oh, fuck me.”
I throw the covers back hard enough to send the comforter halfway onto the floor and get out of bed with considerably more enthusiasm than coordination.
One foot catches in the sheet, my shoulder clips the edge of the bedroom door on the way to the bathroom and somewhere between brushing my teeth and turning on the shower, I realize I have absolutely no memory of silencing my alarm.
Apparently, once in a blue moon, sleeping Julia has become technologically proficient. Excellent.
My usual morning routine requires somewhere between fifty minutes and an hour depending on how cooperative my hair decides to be, which means today I have approximately half that and no room for standards.
I shower quickly, twist my hair into a low knot while it is still slightly damp and apply enough makeup to suggest I slept accidentally rather than voluntarily, losing forty-three minutes of my life.
The black trousers I planned to wear are wrinkled, so I abandon them for another pair and pull on a dark green sweater that has the enormous advantage of looking presentable without requiring an iron.
By the time I make it downstairs, one earring is still in my hand and I am attempting to fasten it while walking toward the kitchen. My stomach growls.
“I know.”
Breakfast can happen on the way, coffee cannot.
There are limits to human adaptability. I shove a pod into the machine, fill the reservoir and press the button while digging through the refrigerator for anything portable enough to eat in the car without creating a traffic hazard or leaving me with stains on my shirt.
Behind me, the machine makes a low mechanical complaint, sputters once and goes silent.
I close my eyes. “No.”
I press the button again. The light blinks at me. Nothing happens.
“You cannot possibly choose today to develop a personality.”
I lift the lid, check the pod as though I possess any meaningful technical knowledge about coffee machines.
I close it again and press the button harder, because years of human innovation have taught us that if an appliance refuses to cooperate, increasing the emotional intensity of your finger is obviously the next diagnostic step.
The machine produces another dying noise.
I stare at it. It stares back in the only way an inanimate object possibly can, which somehow still feels smug.
“Fine. Die. Fuck you.”
Daniel will bring me coffee anyway. He usually does on Mondays, partly because he loves me and partly because years of working together have taught him that caffeinating me before nine is less an act of friendship than preventative workplace maintenance.
I grab my bag, shove my phone inside and head toward the front door while trying to slide one foot into my shoe without stopping.
My hand closes around the knob, I pull the door open quickly, and nearly walk straight into Mrs. Pritchard.
“Oh!” The word escapes both of us at almost the same time.
The smell reaches me before I properly see what is inside. Warm bread, toasted sesame, something cinnamon-sweet and enough garlic to make my starving stomach immediately reconsider every life choice that led to skipping breakfast.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she says, her smile widening as she takes in my bag sliding off one shoulder, the shoe I am still not entirely wearing and whatever expression is currently happening on my face. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“No, no, not at all. I’m just apparently competing in some kind of speed-dressing event I wasn’t told about.”
She laughs and lifts the basket slightly. “I made too many bagels.”
The phrase too many is relative when it comes to Mrs. Pritchard. Last winter she made enough chicken soup to feed half the block after deciding one pot did not look substantial enough, and several months ago she delivered cookies in a tin that could have doubled as an emergency shelter.
I glance into the basket. There have to be at least fifteen bagels inside.
“You definitely made too many bagels.”
“I thought you could take some to work if you don’t want all of them.”
Considering the smell, eating all of them suddenly feels like an entirely achievable personal goal given I didn’t have time for breakfast.
Instead, I smile and take the basket when she offers it. “Thank you. Seriously. My entire office is going to worship you before nine-thirty.”
“Then tell them worship is unnecessary, but I wouldn’t object to getting the basket back eventually.”
“I’ll protect it with my life.”
She steps away from the door while I shift the basket against my hip and rearrange my bag.
Behind me, something makes a soft scrape against the hallway floor, but I barely register the sound among everything else I am carrying and the running calculation in my head about how late I am already going to be.
“Have a good day, Julia.”
“You too, Mrs. Pritchard. And thank you again.”
She starts down the walkway while I pull the door shut behind me and lock it awkwardly around the basket. Whatever moved inside the hallway disappears from my mind before I reach the car.
I walk into the law firm, twelve minutes later than I normally would and carrying enough baked goods to suggest I have recently undergone a career change.
Monday is already in full swing. Daniel sees me from across the floor.
More importantly, I see what he is holding.
A cardboard coffee cup. I stop beside my desk and lift one hand toward him like a dehydrated traveler spotting water after three days in the desert.
“You’re a god.”
Daniel walks over and places the cup directly into my waiting hand. “I know, bitch.”
The first sip is hot enough to make me wince and strong enough to restore several missing personality traits.
I close my eyes for a second. “Oh my God.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I could kiss you.”
“You say that every Monday and yet somehow I remain tragically unkissed.”
“That’s because we don’t play for the same team.” I wink at him and he snorts.
“Fair.”
His attention finally shifts to the basket I have set beside my monitor. “Did you rob a bakery on the way here?”
“Mrs Pritchard apparently spent Sunday preparing carbohydrates for the entire legal profession.”
Daniel lifts one corner of the cloth and immediately steals an everything bagel.
“Oh my God, I love Mrs. Pritchard..”
I take another long drink of coffee and gesture toward the kitchen. “Help me carry these in before I decide stress-eating thirteen bagels is a medically acceptable response to Monday.”
We leave the basket on the long counter beside the office coffee machine, along with a handwritten note telling everyone to help themselves.
By nine-fifteen, somebody has produced three kinds of cream cheese, one of the paralegals is cutting the cinnamon bagels into halves because apparently this makes eating two of them morally different from eating one whole one, and Mrs. Pritchard has become the most popular woman in a building she has never entered.
Just as I promised her but I barely have time to appreciate her success before the day starts demanding things from me.
Mondays at the firm always feel as though every problem people have avoided over the weekend has spent forty-eight hours gathering strength and arrives at eight-thirty determined to be acknowledged.
Two clients want updates before I have time to open their files, a deposition has been moved without anyone informing the attorney who actually needs to attend it, and somebody has uploaded three versions of the same agreement into the shared system without labeling any of them final.
An hour later, and I have solved the deposition issue, located the correct agreement and talked an irritated client out of sending an email that would have given opposing counsel something to frame and hang above their desk.
Daniel passes me twice wearing the particular expression he gets when he knows he has forgotten something but is hoping the universe might remember it for him. I let him suffer for several minutes before calling after him.
“Daniel?” He stops and turns.
I glance pointedly at the clock on my monitor. “Your eleven o’clock with Patterson.”
The change in his face is immediate. “Fuck.”
“I was wondering when you’d get there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me fifteen minutes ago?”
“Personal development.” He stares at me.
I return my attention to the document on my screen. “You’re welcome.”