new year's day [h.s.]

One

"These days

We know nothing

Just a memory, youthful days."

SONG: "Old Friend" // The Walters

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— Eden —

I know time won't move any faster if you give the clock the death stare, but Christ, it could at least consider putting some pep in its step. Time is a social construct and all that, anyway, yeah? Just like money, both of which being the only reason I'm still sitting at this desk when it's already happy hour.

Only 5 more minutes, Eden. Maybe just start loading up your bag as if you're still 17 and trying to steal some liquor from the cabinet while Mom and Dad are in the next room. That ought to do the trick.

5:26 PM – I've managed to turn closing three tabs and powering down my laptop into a minute-long job.

5:27 PM – I've rearranged the order in which my notebooks are stacked on my desk six times.

5:28 PM – I've slowly thrown everything into my tote bag and pulled my purse out of its drawer.

5:29 PM – I've decided to say "fuck it."

Throwing both bags over my shoulder, I stand and push my chair into my desk, making my way towards the elevators. A few staff members still linger but the majority of the workspaces around me are empty. This just means that most of the other writers have probably already found their way to the bars, those lucky bastards.

"Marcus! By the time I'm out of the bathroom, you better have all your shit together and the car keys in hand," I call out to the bobbing head of black hair still at work along the back wall.

"Considering I'm the one who drove, I don't think you're in a position to be making demands. However, I too would like to get home to my girlfriend, so I'll let it slide," he says as he pulls out an AirPod, swiveling around in his chair to flash me a smile. I throw a thumbs up in his direction before shoving the bathroom door open.

After finishing up in the stall and washing my hands, I dig through my purse for a tube of red lip gloss. Swiping some on to make up for the bits that came off during lunch, I rub my lips together while fixing a few curls in the mirror. I spot a few stray hairs that shed their way onto my black mock neck top, so I pull them off before smoothing out the front of the brown leather skirt I'm sure will end up glued to my thighs with sweat on the drive home. Satisfied after giving myself another once-over in the mirror, I throw the gloss in my bag before opening the door back out to the staff room.

"C'mon, our silver chariot awaits!" Marcus, ever the smartass, remarks as I find him right outside the door. Leaning against the wall and swinging the keys around his finger, he gives me another smile before throwing an arm around my shoulder.

"Can't keep the missus waiting now, can you?"

The "missus" here being Mattie. Matilda, Tilly, Martha May Whovier. One of the brightest lights in my life, forever making sure my own flame is at least flickering, if not shining steadily through the dark. We met after I moved to Berkeley to begin my Master's program, finding ourselves working at the same little coffee shop near campus the summer before we each began our graduate studies – mine for journalism, hers for education. After just one week of overlapping shifts, she offered her roommate's old room to me, sparing me from further renting an AirBnB until I could find a decent apartment. She's always been quick to judge people's energy, quick to make decisions, quick to help. I suppose having to deal with preteens for seven plus hours each day only makes her better at all that.