Page 1 of Silver Linings
one
. . .
It’smy own personal belief that having to roll yourself out of bed when you aremost definitelyhungover from the night before should award you with some small semblance of mercy from the universe.
Apparently, the universe is a bitch.
Being woken up before the good lord intended—also known as the third time the snooze alarm goes off—by jackhammering pounding into pavement outside the window is certainlynotmy idea of a post-celebratory night out wake up call. It’s actually making me feel vaguely murder-y, if I’m being honest.
And yet, here I am, suffocating my head with my pillow, cutting off much-needed oxygen in an attempt to drown out the sound of the construction blaring five floors below. They might as well have placed their jackhammer directly on my skull with the way my head is throbbing, fueled by last night’s one too many gin and tonics.
But after another agonizing ten minutes of cursing the city for being punctual in repairing something for once—while simultaneously asking myself why I love it here so much—I finally find the strength to drag myself out of bed and army crawlmy way into the bathroom for a shower. I set the water dial to a temperature that would put shame to the seventh ring of hell and start scrubbing last night’s sins from my body.
Once I’m clean and can face myself in the mirror without screeching away in horror, I brush my teeth, not caring enough to bother with makeup, and get dressed before heading downstairs to go to work…to the shift I’m running late for.
The elevator doors ping open to reveal the lobby of my building and the short, stocky doorman standing just behind the welcome desk. He turns to face me with an animated smile stretching wide across his ruddy face.
“Good morning,” Tony bellows with enthusiasm, making me wince as the headache on the edge of my brain flairs to life.
I grunt out an unintelligible reply.
“Yeah, I heard you got in really late last night,” he chuckles.
“You and Randall need to stop whispering about the tenants during shift change.” Randall is our overnight doorman, and he and Tony are worse than little old ladies gossiping at a town hall bingo night. I rub at my forehead, hoping to ease some of the tension still lurking there.
“But then who would update you on the latest building news?” His inflection is conspiratorial, andnewsis just a nice word for gossip.
“Oh?” I sidle a bit closer to his desk, tucking my hair behind my ear, as if that will help me listen better while feigning disinterest. “Something happened yesterday?”
He leans in conspiratorially. “Mrs. Evans on four threatened to sue Mr. Sanders’ daughter.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. “Mr. Sanders’ daughter? Isn’t Isla five?”
Tony starts cackling. “Yes! I told Isla she should hire Caroline on seven as her defense attorney.” He takes a sip of coffee fromthe mug behind the counter, the scent traveling over, making my stomach cramp in need. “Oh, and Sal is retiring.”
That shocked me out of my thoughts. Sal is, or I guesswas,our building’s maintenance man. He has been keeping this building running for over fifty years without fail, and he’s very much like the building he’s tirelessly looked after for the last five decades—old, a little rough around the edges, and probably the most likely to survive the apocalypse by sheer force of will.
“Damn, I thought he would never retire. Have they found his replacement yet?” I glance down at my phone and note the time, knowing I still need to stop and get coffee on the way if I’m going to survive the day.
“I think they’ve got their eye on someone, but I haven’t met him yet.”
“I don’t want to cut this bonding moment short, but Holly’s going to kill me if I don’t get to the store soon.” My coworker, Holly—also known as an angel amongst mortals—already opened the store for me due to my previously-catatonic state. I make my way towards the door. “But tell Isla I’ll be a character witness in the case against Mrs. Evans!”
I press out onto the street, immediately assaulted by a wall of heat and humidity.
One thing no one realizes when they think about New York City is how insufferable the summers are here. There’s a reason most of the movies and tv shows seem to take place during fall and winter—it’s a much more romantic setting when you can’t smell steaming garbage as you walk literally anywhere. As it stands, it’s currently the end of July, and I can feel sweat building on the nape of my neck.
Reaching into my purse, I shuffle around until I find my handheld electric fan, turn it on and blast my face with a tepid breeze. I have no shame when it comes to heat, and if this is what I have to do to stay even moderately comfortable, I’d do it.
Hot weather and I do not a couple make.
My feet drag me toward my favorite coffee shop as I dodge people swirling around me. It may be a Monday, but the city is always buzzing with an electric sort of vibrancy. Walking down the street in your neighborhood is like reliving a scene in a movie you’ve seen a million times—familiar, comforting, and you can time everything down to the second. There’s the symphony of pigeons taking flight because a child gave chase, cabbies honking at other drivers, business men feverishly talking into their phones, and my personal favorite: the neighborhood watch dog judging all of us from his windowsill throne.
Even after years passing by and trying to earn his trust, he’s never warmed to me. I must be suffering a moment of insanity, because even in mywitheringstate, I decide to try my luck.
I hedge close to the window where Bob holds vigil, lips starting to recede from his canines and a comically large bow tie around his small neck. “Good morning, Bob. Are you on step four of world domination today?”
Robert, the seven pound mini poodle, stares at me quizzically before devolving into a fit of barking that sounds suspiciously like:back away from my window, bitch.
