“You busy?” Scott reaches his head into my office and pointlessly knocks on the door.

“Always,” I quip promptly.

“Tell me about it. You wanna go to the bar after work?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. Afterward, I’ll have to head home early tonight. My family and I are leaving for the weekend. The wife wants to get out of the city for a bit. Not that I blame her.”

“I don’t blame her either. This city is rubbish,” I reply. “But yeah, that all sounds good.”

Scott pouts. “You sound moody today. What’s up?”

“Moody? How so?” I look up from my work.

“You just seem kind of, I dunno, testy?” says Scott. “Jordan’s case?”

“It is that and many things,” I return truthfully. “I don’t know. I’m not happy right now. Work is stressing me out more than normal. I feel like I live here. When I’m not here, I don’t have anything else to do. Just kind of going through some shit right now. I’m re-evaluating my life, and it’s not making me happy. I miss being blissfully content with fruitless consistency.”

Dammit Sofia. How dare she ask me about my dreams. Her words are forcing me to go through a bought of unwanted self-reflection. It keeps me up at night. I hate it.

“Sounds like you’re going through your mid-life crisis.”

“I’m in my early thirties, Scott.”

Scott shrugs. “It can happen at any time.”

“Sure,” I quip. “I’ll text you when I head over. I need a drink anyways, so thanks for asking me,” I lie for the sake of our friendship.

“Alright. Don’t go overboard, okay?” Scott waves to me as he walks away.

On top of Jordan’s case, my other cases are piling up. Now I get anxious every time I tell someone to plead guilty over petty issues after this current peculiarity. It was a freak incident, but I think about it constantly. Will there be other failures down the road? Have I been doing the right things?

Maybe Scott’s right. I’m having a mid-life crisis, and that’s not healthy. What? Does that mean I’ll die at sixty?

Work continues on mundanely for what feels like hours. Piles of paperwork. Mailing stuff. Answering phone calls. Losing my damn hair. Staring at a wall while thinking about my life.

At six o’clock, I finish enough shit to feel complete for the day. I’ll have to head into the courtroom tomorrow. I think I’m prepped for that. It should be good. Got some work for the afternoon out of the way so that I can focus on that.

Bag in hand, I head towards the exit. A yawn leaves my mouth as the tension of the day weakens my body.

“Felix, can you come here for a second?” a voice calls.

The voice belongs to one of the more senior attorneys in the office. Lanzo Willis. He’s making a run for Congress in this district, using his work here at the public defender’s office to campaign as a man of the people. It’s taken him away from the office most days. He hasn’t formally started his run yet, but the seeds are set with a growing coalition of people ready to back him.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Sure,” I lie. My genuine desire is to flee, pretending I never heard him speak. “What do you need?” I invite forth a likely increased workload.

“Listen, I’ve got a meeting with a few influential people for a dinner event. Do you mind checking over the pile of files on the side of my desk? They should be good, but I want a second opinion. If they look alright, feel free to mail them out after, okay?”

Fuck you.

“Sure. I can do that,” I say without hesitation.

I gain nothing from this. I could probably get out of it if I tried.

Why don’t I?

“You’re the man.” Lanzo pats me on the shoulder. “Best worker in this damn office,” he says. It’s a tagline I’m familiar with. The more I hear it, the faker it seems.

“I appreciate that.”

Lanzo leaves me standing like an idiot in the office.

I walk over to his desk, plop myself in his seat, pull off the first file, and begin reading.

•

Two hours go by.

My phone jingles.

“Hello?” I answer weakly, exhaustion evident in my voice.

“Where are you at?” Scott states into the receiver.

“Oh shit. Right.” I sigh strongly into the phone. “Dammit, man, I’m sorry. Lanzo left my ass with a pile of work so he could drink with his political buddies. I’m locked in for a while. I’m like a little over halfway done at this point. Don’t think I’ll make it out tonight. Enjoy your weekend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner.”

“You’re always doing too much. You can say ‘no’ from time to time.”

“You’d think so. I’ve always been too compliant of a guy.”

“Stick up for yourself.”

I sigh. “Goodnight, Scott.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

I look at the phone with a frown.

•

Nine o’clock comes quickly. I stuff a bunch of letters filled with documents into the mailbox slot for the office paralegal to handle in the morning. She’ll manage that end of the bargain. If Lanzo wanted them formally sent tonight, he’s an idiot because there was no way I could have read through that pile of shit and mailed it before the post office closed for the day.

My conscience is clear on that end.

My body is haggard. I drag it out of the office into the crisp New York air. The corners of my eyes feel heavy. They sting. The weight of the world crushes down my shoulders as I trudge along the still busy streets towards the subway station.

Inside the train, I’m able to grab a seat near the door.

My head reclines against the metal. It’s cold. Cool. Probably hasn’t been cleaned since this piece of machinery was put on these tracks. I could care less. I’m so tired.

So very tired.

“Get yo head off me,” a voice shouts.

I’m violently shoved sharply to the left. My eyes fly open with a start. I look around, startled. “Huh?” I turn to my right. A man is staring angrily at me. “What happened?”

“You started leaning your little head on my shoulder, bruh,” the guy spits. He looks like an early two-thousands Eminem stunt double reject. “Mind my space, my guy.”

“Sorry, sorry.” I yawn. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the man scoffs. He places upon his ears a large set of headphones. From that point on, he ignores me for the remainder of the time.

At ten at night, I’m back at my apartment.

“I’m hooooome!” I shout into the darkness.

Dishes pile in the sink. Dust lines the furniture. Scattered clothes ruin the floor. Every time I come home, this place is in more disarray than when I left. I rarely have time to clean. I don’t want to waste money on a maid. Not on this small place.

An overwhelming sense of pure loneliness hits me as I stare into the darkness.