Page 1 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
1
Felicity
Outside my office was a sea of sleek desks, each an island for the ambitious souls who charted their own courses toward personal success. My colleagues, a flock of sharply dressed birds of prey, hovered over keyboards and smartphones, their eyes reflecting upward graphs and dollar signs.
“Another deal closed!” crowed Jonathan from across the room, his voice slicing through the hum of productivity like a bell tolling victory. “This quarter is mine!”
My gaze flitted from Jonathan’s triumphant fist pump to my desk, cluttered with manuscripts that whispered stories of other worlds and times. My fingers danced over the pages with reverence, but my mind waltzed away to a different tune. A tune that called my name, laced with the laughter of old friends.
“New York Times Bestsellers List or bust,” Heather declared from the office next door, her words sharp and shiny as the stilettos she used to trample any semblance of work-life balance.
“Right,” I muttered under my breath, a voice devoid of the cutthroat conviction that seemed to fuel her colleague. I turned back to my window, the city sprawling below like a kingdom of steel and glass—a kingdom that had once promised me the world but now felt as confining as a gilded cage.
“Hey, Felicity, you coming to the power lunch?” Heather’s head popped up like a meerkat on high alert. “It’s sushi on Seventh. You know, mingle with the big fish?”
“Um, maybe.” I forced a smile, knowing full well my stomach churned at the thought of raw ambition served on a bed of rice. My appetite had grown dull for the taste of corporate triumph.
I swiveled her chair back to the expanse of New York, a concrete jungle where dreams were both made and deferred. The twinkling lights, once stars to wish upon, now seemed to mock me with their incessant blinking, as if to say, “Is this all there is?”
Years of climbing, pushing, striving—for what? To sit in this tower, wondering if I’ll ever feel that spark again?
My lips parted in a sigh no one heard over the ringing phones and clacking keys. My eyes lingered on the horizon, searching for something—anything—that resembled the warmth of a small-town Christmas. The trouble with being surrounded by people who only looked up was that no one seemed to notice the view right in front of them—the view I longed to see once more.
I leaned back, the leather chair embracing me like an old friend, as I allowed myself a moment’s fantasy of snowy sidewalks and mistletoe. The image was as comforting as it was terrifying because it whispered of a life I could have if only I dared to step off the relentless treadmill of success.
“Maybe it’s time,” I whispered to myself, blue eyes reflecting a resolve that surprised even me. “Time to find my way back... to me.”
The clock struck six, yet the office pulsed with undimmed vigor, as if the hands of time had no jurisdiction over the relentless hum of ambition. My once bright eyes, now dulled by the glare of my computer screen, darted between the digits that declared my freedom still hours away. I stifled a yawn, stretching my arms above her head, feeling the strain of muscles kept too long in the servitude of posture and poise.
“Another late one, Felicity?” The voice belonged to an unseen colleague, a shadow moving through the penumbra of cubicles—a space where privacy was a myth and everyone’s business was up for speculation.
“Wouldn’t want to break my streak,” I quipped, the humor in my tone undercut by the weariness that seeped into the creases of my smile. My fingers danced across the keyboard, a ballet of productivity, as I willed my focus back to the glaring spreadsheet.
“Careful, or you’ll turn into part of the furniture,” another voice chimed in, followed by a chorus of knowing chuckles from the surrounding desks. I offered a half-hearted laugh, though the jest was a little too on the nose for comfort.
“Hey, did you see the memo about the new targets?” someone called out, the question rhetorical, a reminder of the ever-escalating expectations that loomed over us like a hawk circling its prey.
“Targets?” I mumbled under my breath, pulse quickening despite myself. “More like missiles aimed straight for any semblance of work-life balance.”
“Come on, it’s not that bad,” a boisterous voice countered, belonging to a man who wore his exhaustion like a badge of honor, his tie loosened but his resolve unyielding. “You get used to it. Just gotta keep pushing!”
“Pushing,” I echoed, my mind conjuring images of Sisyphus and his boulder—a tale of eternal toil that felt all too relatable. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the metaphor before it took root.
“Besides,” the man added, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink, “Christmas is just around the corner. Think of the bonus!”
“Ah, yes, the bonus,” I acknowledged, my words tinted with irony. “Nothing says ‘Happy Holidays’ quite like compensatory cash for selling your soul, piece by piece.”
“Someone’s feeling cynical,” a woman across the aisle observed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe you need a vacation, Felicity. You know, rediscover the joy in life?”
“Joy,” I repeated, the word strange and sweet on my tongue. It stirred something within—a flicker of longing for the simple pleasures no paycheck could provide. I looked down at my hands, pallid from fluorescent lights and overtime, and wondered when they had last known the touch of winter’s chill, or wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa shared with old friends.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, more to myself than to the colleagues. It was a whisper of defiance, a silent vow to seek the fulfillment that couldn’t be found in endless spreadsheets and hollow victories. A minor rebellion against the machine that was my daily grind.
“Right about what?” the woman asked, but I only smiled, a secret blooming in my heart.
“About rediscovering joy,” I replied, gaze drifting to the window once more, where the city sprawled beneath—a sprawling canvas waiting to be traded for the quaint brushstrokes of Amesbury’s charm. “Let’s just say I’ve got plans.”
My fingers danced over the paper edges like a flamenco guitarist riffing on a lightning-fast arpeggio. The stack of manuscripts on my desk was a literary Mount Everest, but I scaled it with the precision of a seasoned climber. My hair fell in a cascade around my shoulders, obscuring my view as I made marginal notes, underlined promising passages, and dog-eared pages for further review.
