Page 2 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
“Girl, you’re making the rest of us look bad,” Heather Lynn Sullivan quipped as she sauntered up to my desk, her sleek black hair swaying like a silk curtain in a soft breeze. “If you keep this up, they’ll have to invent a new title just for you. Super-Agent, perhaps?”
I chuckled without lifting my gaze from the manuscript. “I’d settle for ‘Woman Who Actually Got to Leave the Office Before Nine PM,’” I retorted, the corner of my mouth twitching upwards.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Heather leaned against the edge of my desk, a tower of ambition in stiletto heels. I flipped open my planner, pages crammed with scribbles and appointments, each one another rung on the ladder I was determined to climb.
“Fun is subjective.” My eyes scanned a paragraph that seemed to ramble like a drunkard stumbling home. With a swift stroke of my pen, I corralled the words into submission.
“Subjective or not, I’ve got a hot date with destiny—and maybe an editor from that ritzy firm uptown.” Heather’s grin was sharp enough to slice through red tape. “You should come. Network. Flirt with opportunity.”
“Thanks, but I have enough paper cuts to last me a lifetime.” My reply was dry as I sifted through the next manuscript, the texture of untouched dreams beneath my fingertips.
“Ah, Felicity, don’t you ever crave more than this?” Heather’s gesture encompassed the office, our shared battlefield of ambition.
“More?” I paused, the word echoing like a hollow bell. “Sometimes I think I crave less.” My blue eyes flickered with a hidden depth, a secret lake nestled deep in the forest of my mind.
“Less?” Heather laughed, sharp like the snap of a closing book. “Honey, ‘less’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I murmured under my breath, returning to my manuscript fortress, diligent eyes searching for a gem among gravel.
“Excuse me?” Heather tilted her head, her gray eyes narrowing.
“Nothing,” I replied, though my heart pulsed with a truth too big for the confines of my chest. There was a entire world beyond these walls, one where success wasn’t measured by overtime hours or the height of your heel.
“Remember, Felicity,” Heather said, her voice laced with unspoken competition, “this city waits for no one.”
“Nor does Amesbury,” I thought, resolve crystallizing like frost on a winter windowpane. I smiled at Heather, the perfect mask for a woman on the verge of exchanging skyscrapers for pine trees.
2
Felicity
My gaze drifted from the manuscript to the office window, where an intricate ballet of snowflakes twirled against the glass. Beyond it, New York City pulsed with relentless energy, a river of red taillights and towering monuments to ambition. Yet the snowfall cloaked everything in a serenity that seemed almost otherworldly. I leaned back in the chair, feeling the weight of countless hours spent in this very spot.
“Looks like a snow globe, doesn’t it?” I mused aloud, half expecting Heather to retort with some quip about productivity. But my colleague was engrossed in a phone call, as she pitched another big deal.
My eyes wandered back to the delicate dance outside my window. The city was beautiful, no doubt, but its beauty felt as if it were always just beyond reach, locked behind panes of ambition and expectation. I yearned for something more tangible, a simple beauty unmarred by the pursuit of more - more money, more success, more everything.
“Remember when we thought this view was everything?” I whispered, knowing Heather couldn’t hear me over the negotiations. A tiny snowflake landed on the glass, its crystalline structure perfect and ephemeral. I knew the feeling well—the perfection of a moment before it melted into the grind of deadlines and meetings.
My attention turned inward, to the sanctuary I carved out amidst the steel and ambition: a modest shelf lined with books. Austen, Brontë, Dickens—their spines were worn, loved, a testament to evenings spent in the company of timeless tales. Each book was a friend, a journey, a life lived fiercely and without regret. My fingers brushed the leather-bound cover of “Pride and Prejudice” as I pulled it from its place.
I sighed, leafing through the pages with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. “If only modern life allowed for such witty repartee and long walks through the countryside.”
“Talking to yourself now? That’s a sign of overwork, you know.” Heather’s voice sliced through my reverie, sharp as the edge of a freshly printed page.
“Or perhaps a sign of good company,” I replied, smiling at the characters dancing across the page. I replaced the novel and glanced at Heather, whose expression was a mix of amusement and confusion.
“Those old books won’t keep you warm at night,” Heather teased, though her tone held an edge of caution, as if worried that I might actually prefer them to human companionship.
“True,” I conceded, “but they do spark a fire in the mind.” I tapped my temple with a slender finger, the gesture encompassing worlds beyond our high-rise purview. Heather rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin.
“Keep your fire. I’ll take the corner office,” Heather declared, turning back to her desk, her heels clicking like a metronome set to the tempo of ambition.
“Corner office be damned,” I murmured, heart aching for wide open spaces and a peace that couldn’t be boxed in by glass and steel. I took one last look at the flurry outside, the snow now blanketing the city in hushed promise.
“Maybe it’s time to find warmth in a different kind of flame,” I thought, resolve growing like a hearth stoked for the first time in years. I imagined the quaint streets of Amesbury, dusted in white, the laughter of friends, and the festive lights.
“New York may have the skyline,” I whispered to the falling snow, “but Amesbury has the stars.”
