Page 1 of Below the Shadow of the City

CHAPTER 1

FRIDAY, LATE AUGUST

There’s a massive snag in my tights. I only notice this once I’m walking out of my bedroom and catch a glimpse of the back of my leg in my mirror. I’m already on the verge of being late. It’s 8:10, I need to be standing on a train by 8:20 if I have any chance of arriving on time. I’m tempting fate today, and what little professionalism I have left is unfortunately sacrificed as I rush out the door.

It’s raining. Again. This summer has been plagued with so much cloying humidity and heavy skies that I practically expect the showers at this point. Everyone idealizes visions of crystal blue skies and picnics in Central Park, but those days are truly a rarity. Either we’re left to deal with suffocating mugginess, or sticky, disgusting rain. Today, the clouds offer one of those mists that makes everything feel perpetually damp, a horrible purgatory between the worst weather the season has to offer. I hold far more respect for true rainstorms. At least they can commit to being something.

Cheerfully chatting tourists snake around the corner of a local bakery to get a cronut or some similarly viral snack despite the weather. My stomach growls as I rush past the line on the sidewalk and dodge flailing arms taking selfies. I’ll rustle up something in the break room later, it’ll fill the void just as well as any Instagrammable snack could.

Layers of black clothes I’ve held onto since my early twenties and a thrifted leather bag are barely enough to make me passable as corporate. I blend in seamlessly with the stiff suit jackets crossing the street in synchronization. Walking down into the subway station I surrender myself to the weather and attempt to hastily put my hair up. It’s day two or three of it being unwashed, I’ve lost track. Probably best for all involved that I’ve wrangled it into a claw clip the best I can.

Other damp commuters are pressed up against each other in the muggy greenhouse of the L train. My glasses fog up. I attempt to wipe them off while dodging shoulders and stabilizing myself as the train begins moving. 8:19. Just under the wire. I smile smugly to myself as I put in my headphones. I’m greasy, sloppy, sweaty, and now a little wet, but at least I’m not late.

My day has hardly started and it feels like a complete mess already. A more optimistic person would say it can only go up from here but optimism has avoided me for the last seven months.

My mornings move in rhythms. Each garbled announcement and dinging door is a countdown to my stop. When it arrives, I slide off the train then follow the flow of everyone else who superficially appears to have their life together up the stairs into fresh air. Once I emerge from underground, I follow the same steps I do each day. Three blocks to my office, up eight floors, thirty three steps to the front desk, say hi to Marta the front desk administrator, sixty two steps to the coffee maker, make Ralph’s coffee, twenty steps to his desk, drop it off, fifteen steps to my desk. It’s a waltz, there’s timing and pacing that I must follow.

My damp bag hangs on the hook in my cubicle and I quickly attempt a redo of my hair to get it looking more presentable. Only Marta has seen me thus far today, and she’d never tell me I look like hell. The blurry compact mirror I fish out of my bag tells me that instead. I scowl a bit at my reflection, wondering if everyone’s late twenties look this rough.

My monitor tells me it’s 8:58. Ralph will walk past in three, two…

“Good morning, Sigrid!” He flashes his very expensive Ken-doll smile. $25,000 veneers, $2,000 suit jacket, $500 selvedge denim jeans, $350 shoes. Probably some filler now and then judging by the fullness of his plasticine cheeks and from how abnormally young he looks for someone in his late 40’s. His casual Friday outfit is more than one of my paychecks.

“Happy Friday, Ralph,” I match his cheery tone but dial down the aggressive enthusiasm. With my choice of collared dress and ever present resting bitch face, I’m a fully grown Wednesday Addams. He and I face off in direct contrast with one another, until he breaks the tension with another Hollywood-esque smile and a flick of blonde hair.

I hand him the printed paper with his neatly organized agenda for the day. During my first week of employment it was drilled into me that he prefers to do things “old school.” Which for me, means a lot of printing out of agendas. He insists that being a man who respects analog forms of communication doesn’t make him any less of a “progressive visionary.” He’s a bizarre caricature of what one would imagine a tech start-up CTO would be. Some days I search for cameras to see if I’ve stumbled onto the set of NBC’s newest workplace sitcom.

“Sigrid, you’re a real champ, see you at ten for the all-hands,” he exclaims without an ounce of irony or condescension. He stays perfectly on script, then heads into his glass cube of an office.

Hours tick by and I feel the snag in my tights building into something more noticeable. Lunch is near, I can run to Duane Reade and find a replacement pair. I cross my legs when anyone comes by to talk to me, stretching the already straining threads across my calf.

There’s a metaphor somewhere in here, I’m convinced.

Margo, best friend, Creative Director of Holonatech, and the reason I have this job, slides up to my desk right before I can make a break for it. She saunters up with the energy of someone’s wine drunk aunt at Christmas. With her pussy-bow blouse and pastel skirt and tights, her outfit contradicts her straight black hair and the tattoos that cover nearly every free inch of skin between her collarbones and ankles.

“So, how pumped are you for tomorrow night?” She asks with a wink.

“…Tomorrow night?” I run through my mental calendar, my only set plans for the weekend were to watch old horror movies and order Chinese food. Just like every other weekend. It’s a wonderful, if not slightly mundane existence.

“Don’t tell me you forgot again,” she shakes her head in frustration at my blank stare, “the barista? I set you guys up? Pink hair? Plays bass?”

“Right, right, her,” I say absentmindedly. I was a different person when I’d agreed to this date, I’m pretty sure I had multiple margaritas coursing through my veins.

“The enthusiasm is oozing from every pore. You’re acting like I scheduled you for a lobotomy.” She’s trying on my behalf, harder than I certainly have been. Usually you have to actually want to date in order for dating to be a successful endeavor.

I shrug. “You know how dating has been.”

It’s been endless first meetings with people I have nothing in common with that fizzle out after twenty minutes. There was Jared, the jewelry maker who hated my joke about the irony of his name with his choice of profession. There was Aubrey, a woman so threateningly hot I fumbled every word and ran off scared. There was also Sebastian, Lola, Alex, and others who have all but faded away into the abyss that is the New York dating pool.

Despite disappointing Margo with my complete disinterest in the blind date she lovingly served up for me, she invites me along to her lunch plans, which always includes a cocktail or three. And one of her booze-laden lunches is precisely how I found myself saddled with a date with the pink-haired barista tomorrow night. I hold a grudge over the past version of myself and vow to never forgive her for taking away my sweet solitude.

“I gotta run an errand,” I say, then flash her the laddering nylon on the back of my leg.

“Very grunge,” she eyes the tear and laughs. “Want me to pick you up some sushi? Spicy crab roll?” My stomach grumbles. The break room only provided me with a singular granola bar that crumbled into honey-wheat flavored dust when I opened the wrapper.

“Rain check on that, I’ll scavenge the exec team’s leftovers.” I’ve gotten in the habit of ordering a little extra without anyone noticing. Maybe it’s a middle finger to capitalism, or maybe it’s a lazy way for me to save a few bucks. Who’s to say.

The pharmacy is two blocks from the office, and if I time things right I’ll get back just in time. Exec team food delivery is at 12:30 on the dot, and I glance down at my off-brand oxfords and beg them to let me run down the wet sidewalks to the pharmacy and back to the office without falling.