After a year at Alliance Northeast, I'd buy a car. Become like everyone else at AN who takes the subway though they could drive to work. I'd buy used. Very. High mileage, rust, a clunking engine. When I'd see everyone getting on the train, I'd wave and yell, "Hiya!"
Dress code at the office would be business professional. I'd nod. Of course, professional. Smile. Of course, suitable for business on the twenty-first floor of a shiny downtown tower.
But in the elevator, I'd free fall. I've nothing left: jeans I sleep in, a sweater with a bloodstain, a too-tight too-leopard blouse, and skanky leather skirt from that other life.
Just before the elevator would hit rock bottom, I'd finally say, Stefanie, for fuck's sake, stop. And stop swearing, too. Breathe. The woman in the cot next to mine has a pretty dress. I'd borrow it, maybe buy it with my first pay.
Shit, I could live in the cubicle where I'd work. It'd be quieter, even with phones ringing, and safer with the street many floors below. It'd have carpet. Down the hall, there'd be free hand cream and tampons in a clean washroom, muffins in the break room. Cake on my birthday! I'd eat a lot better.
On my first day, the sun would come out. On my desk, a card: "Welcome to Alliance Northeast, Stefanie." There'd be maps — I've been lost before — to the cafeteria on the fifteenth floor, the company daycare on the second. I'd meet someone gorgeous at lunch. We'd have a baby.
Until they come along, I'd frame pics of random people and call them family, and buy a little plant to love.
All if, tomorrow, I get the job.
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