My Perfect Job
My Perfect Job
I look out the window and see massive buildings, millions of colorful lights lights and above it all a dark night sky. It’s almost eight, and I rub my eyes in an effort to wipe away exhaustion from the long day. I struggle to get up and slowly walk over to the huge window. I look down and see hundreds of tiny cars whoosh in all directions, I think I see people, but it’s too hard to tell. I sip on my cappuccino while thinking about today’s case. I admire my speech and the carefully thought out questions for the main witness. I remember when I first started my practice: a shabby small office on a side-street, working for a snobbish little man who always annoyingly patted his head to make sure his toupee was still there. I was so inexperienced and scared.
I notice that I finished my cappuccino and have been “sipping” on air for the past fifteen minutes; I laugh at myself and toss the empty cup in the trash. Then I fall back into my thoughts, and I realize that I’m proud of me. I proud of my tall bookshelves full of law books which I have all read, my big desk with piles of folders with cases waiting to be “freed”, the confidence I have in the courtroom, the way I worked so hard to be able to say that I love my job, I’m round of how eager I am to come in here every morning and I never want the day to end so I can stay just a little longer. A lot of people can only dream of what I have.
I am interrupted by a ring, that’s