Wish We Never Started

26

My first day of work feels surreal. Nothing about it feels right, like this can't be my life now.

First, there's the looming corporate building I walked into at seven thirty this morning. The lobby is large and spacious, and two people greeted me enthusiastically at the concierge desk the second I stepped inside.

In the lobby, there's fake plants and sections of seating – couches, arm chairs, some sort of recliner-looking thing. The windows span to the ceiling, probably fifteen feet high and eight feet wide. The natural light is beautiful and makes me wonder why they also need all of the modern light fixtures that hang.

There's a coffee bar and table with continental breakfast items, so I grab a muffin and wait over by the elevators with a few other employees.

Nobody says anything to each other as we wait for one of the three elevators to split open.

The seventh floor, Katarina will be waiting for you.

That's the text my uncle sent me, replaying in my head. As I step inside the elevator, I double check his text and I request the seventh floor to the bald middle aged man pressing the buttons.

By the time everyone is done requesting, the buttons that are lit up remind me of a connect four game.

"Ground level, going up!" The cheerful female voice echoes into the elevator.

"Amusing," I react, "my apartment elevators don't do anything but act sketchy. I think if they could talk, they'd be like, 'ground level, trying to go up but battery is dying.'"

The people on the elevator look at me like I'm insane, but they don't say anything. Uncomfortable, I spit out a chuckle, making the situation worse.

One man eyes my muffin, giving me a half grin and a quiet scoff. It feels like he knows I'm fresh meat or maybe the unspoken rule is don't take the lobby muffins. Or maybe it's what just blurted from my mouth.

Finally, the doors open to my floor, revealing a vast level of cubicles and windows.

"This is me," I awkwardly mutter to myself this time.

As the elevator shuts behind me, I hear the female voice say, "seventh floor, going up!" and my facial expression cheekily mocks her as I step onto the beige carpet of the seventh floor.

As promised, an older woman appears from around the corner and greets me with a warm smile. She has gray-tinged blonde hair that's tied back in a bun, accentuating her chubby face. She's wearing a green blouse and black knee-length skirt, her whole arm adorned with different bracelets as she extends it to shake my hand.

"Katarina," she says pleasantly, bowing forward just slightly.

"Gabriel," I say less pleasantly, but professional, giving her hand a firm shake.

"I'm the receptionist. For you," she adds after a beat, the warm smile still lingering on her lips.

"Me?" I point to myself, just to make sure that is what she meant. In what world do I get my own receptionist?

"Yes, Mr. Gabriel Park?" She asks, looking at me from the top of her thinly rimmed cat-eye glasses.

"That's... me," I hesitantly reiterate.

"Great," her hands clasp together, "follow me and I'll show you to your office."

The lump in my throat that's been stuck since I woke up finally relaxes. Maybe this won't be so bad. She leads me around the corner where there's a medium length hallway adorned with golden framed photos. At the end of the hallway there are two sets of glass doors that open into offices that overlook the city, both featuring the large glass windows like downstairs.