that Granny Addie would doze off mid-sentence, waking up again to pick up where she’d left off—or talking about something else entirely, finishing a conversation begun in a dream.
Clemmie sat herself gingerly back down in the chair. Even though it had been dark for hours, it was relatively early yet, not quite eight. She could give it a little time before going home to pack.
It felt good just to sit.
The shades were still up and through them she could see the lights of the building across the way. Through the windows, scenes in miniature were being played out, people coming home from work, families sitting down to dinner. Clemmie wrapped her arms around herself, leaning her head against the side of the chair. There was a strange sort of melancholy that came of looking into other people’s lives, watching them from the outside. It made her miss Dan.
Well, maybe not Dan himself. She was surprised at how little a gap he had left in her life, how little she thought of him, of him as him. But she missed the idea of him. She missed what he had represented.
Was it so wrong to want someone? Someone to call when she was stuck at the office, someone to snuggle up against on cold nights, someone who would remind her that there was a life outside of work. For a moment, she had thought she had that with Dan, even if Dan himself was, well, Dan. But he had seemed so sure, sure enough for both of them, and just having someone else in her life, even if she wasn’t entirely sure it was the right someone else, had made her feel more complete, more comfortable in her own skin.
He had shown up at a time when she was beginning to feel a little panicky, suddenly aware that her friends weren’t just marrying around her, they were having children already, and here she was, married to her desk, without a date in sight.
She had dated in college and law school, but none of them had seemed to last. At the time, it didn’t matter; she had plenty of time, years and years for that. Her mother had pounded into her the importance of being self-motivated and self-supporting. Marriage was the kind of thing that just happened; a career was something you had to work at.
But it hadn’t just happened, not for her. There had been a brief fling with another associate her second year at the firm and then nothing. Nothing for a long, long time. She had gone on the odd blind date, set up by college friends and colleagues, some awful, some okay, but none accompanied by a blinding clap of thunder. She had gone to cocktail parties—when her work schedule permitted—and been seated awkwardly next to the token single man at married friends’ Saturday night dinner parties, but, at the end of the day, she’d always found herself going home alone.
And then along came Dan.
Dan was an expert witness called in to advise her team on an IP case. As a fifth year, Clemmie was the most senior associate involved, and she didn’t know her UNIX from her eunuchs. Dan had found that hysterically funny, far funnier than the weak joke warranted. He had invited her for coffee, and Clemmie, more for the caffeine than for the company, had said yes. She hadn’t realized that when he said “coffee” he meant coffee.
They’d gone downstairs to the Starbucks next door and he’d told her all about himself. He had his PhD in computer science from Yale, he told her, and his computer start-up was creating—something or other. Clemmie, who already knew all this from his bio, wondered why he was telling her until, hesitantly, he’d asked her what she thought about dinner.
Mine generally comes from a plastic bag delivered to the lobby, she’d said.
Want to do something wild and crazy and have some with me? he said.
So she had.
His life couldn’t have been more different from hers. As CTO of an Internet start-up, he’d knock off half a day to play foosball, then work forty-eight hours straight, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He got her out of the
Clemmie sat herself gingerly back down in the chair. Even though it had been dark for hours, it was relatively early yet, not quite eight. She could give it a little time before going home to pack.
It felt good just to sit.
The shades were still up and through them she could see the lights of the building across the way. Through the windows, scenes in miniature were being played out, people coming home from work, families sitting down to dinner. Clemmie wrapped her arms around herself, leaning her head against the side of the chair. There was a strange sort of melancholy that came of looking into other people’s lives, watching them from the outside. It made her miss Dan.
Well, maybe not Dan himself. She was surprised at how little a gap he had left in her life, how little she thought of him, of him as him. But she missed the idea of him. She missed what he had represented.
Was it so wrong to want someone? Someone to call when she was stuck at the office, someone to snuggle up against on cold nights, someone who would remind her that there was a life outside of work. For a moment, she had thought she had that with Dan, even if Dan himself was, well, Dan. But he had seemed so sure, sure enough for both of them, and just having someone else in her life, even if she wasn’t entirely sure it was the right someone else, had made her feel more complete, more comfortable in her own skin.
He had shown up at a time when she was beginning to feel a little panicky, suddenly aware that her friends weren’t just marrying around her, they were having children already, and here she was, married to her desk, without a date in sight.
She had dated in college and law school, but none of them had seemed to last. At the time, it didn’t matter; she had plenty of time, years and years for that. Her mother had pounded into her the importance of being self-motivated and self-supporting. Marriage was the kind of thing that just happened; a career was something you had to work at.
But it hadn’t just happened, not for her. There had been a brief fling with another associate her second year at the firm and then nothing. Nothing for a long, long time. She had gone on the odd blind date, set up by college friends and colleagues, some awful, some okay, but none accompanied by a blinding clap of thunder. She had gone to cocktail parties—when her work schedule permitted—and been seated awkwardly next to the token single man at married friends’ Saturday night dinner parties, but, at the end of the day, she’d always found herself going home alone.
And then along came Dan.
Dan was an expert witness called in to advise her team on an IP case. As a fifth year, Clemmie was the most senior associate involved, and she didn’t know her UNIX from her eunuchs. Dan had found that hysterically funny, far funnier than the weak joke warranted. He had invited her for coffee, and Clemmie, more for the caffeine than for the company, had said yes. She hadn’t realized that when he said “coffee” he meant coffee.
They’d gone downstairs to the Starbucks next door and he’d told her all about himself. He had his PhD in computer science from Yale, he told her, and his computer start-up was creating—something or other. Clemmie, who already knew all this from his bio, wondered why he was telling her until, hesitantly, he’d asked her what she thought about dinner.
Mine generally comes from a plastic bag delivered to the lobby, she’d said.
Want to do something wild and crazy and have some with me? he said.
So she had.
His life couldn’t have been more different from hers. As CTO of an Internet start-up, he’d knock off half a day to play foosball, then work forty-eight hours straight, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He got her out of the
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