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the strangers next to her davenport. To keep watch. It seems like it could be a scene from a horror movie—where the photo comes to life and possibly attacks her. It occurs to me she might wake up startled if the photo is the first thing she sees—so I move it back a respectful distance.

Instant Coffee
    THE FACT THAT I forgot I belonged somewhere means something to me. At this moment, it gets me thinking that I really don’t belong at work.
    I walk into the conference room. Gray suits. White shirts. Raised eyebrows and unhappy looks in my direction. I take a seat. I mouth the word “sorry” to everyone who will look. Though some people don’t look. They are too incensed that I have the gall to show up late when they’ve been in this cavernous chamber all morning.
    When I first became a lawyer, I loved the extreme detail of it. How language mattered. The way it required my full attention and how, unlike my family, it was explicit in its meaning. I’d found the demanding job that needed me as much as I needed it. It was a dream come true. The family I never had.
    With time, you’d think too much of a good thing could only get better. But in my case it’s become suffocating. It’s devoured all other parts of my life. I couldn’t have said this yesterday. I couldn’t have admitted it, or maybe it was not yet true yesterday.
    I mouth the word “coffee” to Jenny, the assistant. I know what you’re thinking—fetch your own coffee, lady. How sexist to expect young and spry Jenny to get coffee. It’s the other way around, of course; Jenny gets coffee only for men. In law school, I didn’t imagine this would be one of my more difficult precedent-setting arguments. Jenny’s paid to be a floater. That means seamlessly filling the gaps. Floating from one task to the next without interrupting the flow of work and ideas. Jenny pretends she doesn’t see me. Instead of aiming to be helpful and largely invisible, she pretends I am invisible. I wait until we make eye contact. Then I make a pouring motion. Still, I get the freeze. Jenny looks away from me quickly and begins removing imaginary lint from her skirt. I wait. I pounce again. I mouth the word “coffee,” then make a pouring motion, followed by a sipping, oops, too-hot-don’t-sip-too-fast motion.
    â€œJen—,” I start to say.
    â€œJenny! Can you stop pretending you don’t see Emily and get the goddamn coffee, so she can quit it with the pantomime routine?” Donald says. “For the life of me I’ll never understand how the hell being paid to pour coffee landed on par with abuse.”
    Donald is a man who does not wait for life, and does not waste time on pleasantries. Donald is a doer. He gets shit done. It must be so satisfying to be Donald.
    I can already predict what form the ugly retaliation will take: scalding hot, instant decaf, with nondairy creamer? I miss my coffee machine. I miss my home. I wish it were yesterday instead of today. Too often, that is my wish.

Exit Here
    RIGHT AFTER THE MEETING, Sam says: “Rhodes, let’s meet in my office.”
    â€œOkay, coach,” I say.
    He doesn’t close the door. He leans against his desk.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say.
    â€œWhat happened?” Sam asks.
    I’m imagining what sort of excuse might appease him—or me—in this situation.
    I could tell him the truth, but even the truth doesn’t quite get me off the hook. I should have called him as soonas my mother fell asleep. I should have called and said, “More tin-foil swans, please.”
    â€œYou need to talk to me,” Sam says. He reaches for my hand and lifts it up to match the palm of my hand against the palm of his hand. Our fingers are stretched out. His hand dwarfs mine. I imagine future generations using this position as a method to determine who might make a suitable mate for life. It’s as good a