She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.
“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.
Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.
“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.
Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.
“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.
“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.
The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.
She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.
“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.
“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.
She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.
She smiled her most welcoming smile.
“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”
As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.
Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.
“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”
The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.
“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.
Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.
Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.
Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.
Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.
The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
