Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Morning, Mrs. L.” I return the kindness. She smiles to herself almost as if she’s blushing from the interaction. She’s eighty-three and always makes me smile, too.
I take my first sip of coffee as I unlock the door, always using the walk home to let it cool. Their basic house coffee is my standard. The rich but simple taste reminds me why I don’t like the frou-frou fancy coffee drinks. Just a good ole cup of Joe for this guy will do just fine. It’s that good.
After hanging my keys on the hook, I remove my bagel from its brown bag. My breakfast gets dropped on my desk, which I pushed to face the sliding glass door a few days ago, needing a new perspective. I open the door to the balcony and lean against it to people watch. We don’t get many people in this area sightseeing, so the attractive girls I spy down below must be lost.
Several clues tell me they’re not from around here. First off, they’re too tan for a New Yorker emerging from a cold winter. They also wear bright colors—too bright for my taste. And finally, there is the most obvious giveaway—the map that they can’t seem to figure out how to read. I laugh at my easy deductions when they ask a guy for assistance.
Our spring season kicks into high gear when New Yorkers leave and the tourists start arriving in droves. Inspired to write, I sit down in my desk chair. The antics playing out on the street below, coupled with Conner escaping the city in hopes of catching that last elusive snowstorm of the season, give me plenty of material to work with, so I start typing.
When I finish the piece, I read through it again and do a quick edit. It’s in keeping with my collection of articles on life in New York, and I know my agent will like it.
It’s ironic that when I was growing up in Manhattan, I used to wish to be anywhere else in the world. Yet here I am at twenty-seven, still in Manhattan and now being paid to write about it. Crazy ridiculous! But being paid to write about the city I now appreciate is nothing to sniff at, and I don’t. I love what I do for a living. I’ve worked hard and sacrificed a lot to get where I am.
I didn’t luck into my life. I created the life I wanted to live. When I left college at the end of my junior year, my parents used every threat they could think of, but nothing could change my mind. I hated the life I was living. It was how they chose to live, not how I would. So I took off on my own and worked hard, earning and deserving everything I have despite what my parents predicted. I also know that I’m very fortunate, and I don’t take it for granted, not like the life I led before. That all feels like a lifetime ago, like my memories are of a different person entirely now. I guess, in a way, they are.
I take an afternoon nap, knowing I’ll need some energy for hitting the bars with Justin tonight. He’s an animal, and even though I’m still in my twenties, that doesn’t guarantee the stamina to play in his league of partying. I met him through Conner about three years ago. Justin’s cool and loves the thrill of the hunt. It’s always interesting to go out on the town with him.
After waking, I take a break from my apartment and go downstairs to check my mail. As I stand in front of the wall of mailboxes, I flip through the uninteresting bills, pausing at a large, heavy cardstock envelope. I tab through my mind, hoping I haven’t forgotten about a friend’s upcoming nuptial or a younger cousin’s graduation, but I come up empty on both fronts. I head back upstairs and rip it open after the other mail gets tossed onto a small table to my left.
A sigh escapes when I realize it’s a funeral announcement for my great-aunt Grace. She died on Tuesday, but I wasn’t called until Thursday, which still bothers me. I read the information relevant to her funeral taking place next Wednesday at three o’clock. The thought of a family reunion, especially one of bad tidings, unsettles me.
Dropping down onto the couch, I turn on the local news as a distraction until my stomach reminds me I forgot to eat lunch. I grab my jacket and walk to the closest subway station. Craving Chinese food, I head to the best in town two train stops away. Totally worth the hassle of getting there.
While waiting on the platform, the crowd bunches around me just as the train arrives. The doors open, and I walk on with the herd. As I make my way to the center of the car, letting everyone else claim the seats, I hear a quiet voice.