when it came down to what my punishment would be back home, my mom told me to keep my hands to myself unless detention was worth it. My auntie said detention was always worth it and then she gave me that wise line about dogs and hydrants. That day I got in trouble I was the hydrant.
Today, I’m in that bitch of a position again.
“One thing after the other,” I whisper into my coffee. The steam flows around my cheeks. The sinful smell of caffeine addiction is the only thing that’s been comforting so far today.
My desk chair groans as I lean back in it, staring at the plaque to the left of my door then the framed news article beside it. My JD and a story about the first case I ever won, which was published in the town’s paper. Six years ago I had so much more energy than I do now.
My laptop is closed and I just simply can’t find the stamina to open it again. Instead, I find myself wishing I’d just stayed in bed all day and never answered my phone.
As a sigh leaves me, I chance a sip of coffee. It’s still too hot, but not scalding like it was when Aaron first brought it in. The shade of brown matches my walnut desk and I find myself smiling over the color of the coffee. I suppose in rough days it helps to be grateful for the little things. And then I catch sight of the bruise on my hand. The same shade as the grain in the desk. So long, gratitude. See you whenever I find that thing called patience.
Ignoring the bruise, I turn my attention to the case file laying open on my desk and read the first bit for what’s now the fourth time since I first sat in here. The constant ticking of the clock seems so loud today that I stare at it rather than the black and white words and inwardly curse myself.
I never should have gotten out of bed. I never should have answered my phone to deal with my mother. I sure as hell would have made it to the curb on time to move my car so I wouldn’t have gotten that ticket. If I hadn’t seen the ticket as I was getting into the car, I wouldn’t have slammed my hand in the door. And, most importantly, if I wasn’t pissed off and in pain, I wouldn’t have said what I said to the press when I was walking into the building.
I shouldn’t have said it and I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. Tension twists my gut. It’s bad; today is a really, really bad day.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I do everything I can to calm myself down. To pretend like my boss isn’t going to walk in here and chew my ass out any minute now.
The parking garage is just across the street. Our building lies between an office complex and small commercial strip. The coffee shop is all the way on the other side, which is a six-minute walk, tried and true. So when I parked with fifteen minutes to spare and a hand that was throbbing just as hard as the headache my mother gave me, I knew I needed coffee.
What I didn’t need was the press waiting for anyone from the Assistant Attorney General’s department so they could ask questions about a case that slipped through my fingers.
Microphones and camera crews first thing in the morning get my adrenaline going in a way I used to crave. I can even admit that back when I first moved here, I loved the sight of them. The high of knowing information and having a voice that mattered meant so much to me. The fact that I worked on cases that were worthy of press was enough to keep a soft professional smile on my lips and a confident gleam in my eye as I strode along confidently with my simple black leather purse kept tight to my side. I paired a power walk with red lipstick and a skirt suit worth more than my first car.
I thought I had it all back then. This morning though, and lately with the way the press has turned, it was hard enough to keep my lips pressed into a thin red line. Lipstick courage or not, I sure as hell had better things to do with my time than be battered with