A rather large man in a suit stood just at my elbow, a security badge emblazoned across his shoulder, making sure I wasn’t stealing pens or USB drives or complicated company secrets. It was insult on top of my gaping injury, his very presence unnerving me and making my fingers fumble as I emptied out my desk. I could feel eyes on me, knew that some of my coworkers were watching the spectacle from just beyond the grand foyer of the company’s corporate office. I finally just started raking things off my desk without a care, unconcerned with whether or not my stupid polka-dotted stapler crushed my stash of cheese crackers into dust. I just needed to get out of there so I could go home and cry. And drink. And maybe combine the two. I was, after all, perpetually single and now unemployed. I finally finished and hauled the box into my arms, surprisingly light for three years’ worth of possessions. Not that being a receptionist was my dream job and not that working at this company had been a joy, but it paid the bills and allowed me to paint at night and on the weekends. Now I was jobless, with the rent due on my incredibly tiny studio in Manhattan - why hadn’t I taken my friends’ advice and moved to a borough?
