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“Lunch in a minute?”
I look at the time. “Yeah, sounds good.” I step away from my desk to stretch my arms out and grab my lunch bag before we walk outside together.
Our two-story building backs up to a small pond with lush green grass surrounding it. Somebody had the foresight to put some picnic tables around it, and Larissa and I have taken to eating lunch out here whenever the time and weather allow. Right now, we’re still dealing with end of summer heat that precedes rainy evenings brought on by hurricane season.A deceptively long stretch that lasts through summer into November.
“So, Paul showed up twenty minutes late,” Larissa tells me as she unpacks her lunch, huffing in annoyance. She leans in like she’s bursting at the seams, her curls bouncing in tandem, ready to vent to anybody about this awful date. “He told me as he sat down that he’s not a big fan of tacos. Tacos! He kept getting annoyed that I was asking about his dog, and then he ended the night by talking about how gummies ruin your teeth. Iknowthey ruin my teeth. I don’t need you to be holier than thou right now, Paul.”
“He sounds terrible.”
“Terrible,” she agrees.
Larissa is my age, near mid-thirties and constantly dating. She’s highly sociable and friendly, and while I’ve always appreciated her work ethic, I’ve never been comfortable enough to get closer than colleagues. But sometimes I wonder if I should just try.
She sighs, stabbing at her salad. “This job is taking up too much of my time. There is no work-life balance here, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s law for you.” I shrug. “By the way, I need motions filed for the Hernandez case,” I add, bringing the attention back to work.
“Of course.” She nods, as if she understands that she’s veered the conversation elsewhere. “You’ve got an appointment set up tomorrow at eleven.”
“Did you figure out that issue with your password?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I look at my watch, then take another bite of my own lunch in silence.
“Doing anything fun tonight?” she asks.
I huff out a laugh. “No. I’ll probably be here late tonight.”
She sighs again, “We are mercilessly bound to this job, to our paychecks. To the hope that we’re helping somebody. But are we really at the end of the day?”
I don’t expect perpetually happy Larissa to feel this way. Maybe she’s having a hard day. Maybe her date with Paul the dentist took it out of her.
Or maybe, more realistically, she’s right.
We work in employment law. I got into it for the hope of helping others, too. But it’s become long hours and high emotions and a shitty boss to deal with.
“It’s a tough job, that’s for sure,” I agree. “Is there anything you need?” I can carry this weight for her if I need to.
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head and smiles weakly. “I’m okay.”
And with that, we finish up our lunch and stand to get back to work. The walk inside is quiet, but Larissa and I both turn our game faces on, ready to get on with the day. And I make it a point to take on more of the workload to give her a break.
I power off and head to the door sometime close to eight, blindly walking to my car and getting in. At this time, the rush hour traffic has died down. A perk of working so late, I guess.
By the time I’m at my apartment, parking in my designated spot, I realize that I don’t know how I even got here. Well, yes, I know I drove here. Butreallyhow I got here. Because I got in my car, and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t remember anything—my walk, my drive. I’d been too busy, too zoned out. Probably staring at my phone at red lights. Following up with more emails, texts. A constant loop of constant communication. Of somebody needing something, or somebody else demanding my attention, and me, willing to give it. All of my time, all of my energy. Scrolling from the morning I wake up, answering early phone calls and messages, right up until I close my eyes, letting the blue light accompany me to sleep. My phone sits on mynightstand right next to me every night, within arm’s reach, easy to access. I’m ready to respond to anybody at any time.
Larissa had a point when she said there is no work-life balance. But some days I wonder why I would need it when I aim to fit my life around my job instead of the other way around.
I walk into my building and pass by the nighttime security at the desk, scrolling on his phone barely giving me a glance. He looks relatively young, always working the night shift, always bored.
I hop into the elevator and take it up to the seventh floor. I bought this place for its proximity to work, a quiet building in midtown that is a comfortable distance from the rest of my family.
Once home, I kick off my shoes, jump in for a shower, and step into comfortable pajamas. I grab a handful of nuts for a snack, having already eaten a quick dinner at the office. I bring my case folders to my bed, my phone nearby. And I go over notes and pieces of information, working on yet another checklist for the following day.
I brush my teeth, I wash my face, I apply my nighttime skin creams. This, too, is a checklist. One that I go down every night. One that I can follow with my eyes closed.
I make lists and I cross them off and I wake up and I work and I come home and I work and I follow every list like a robot.
