Page 5 - The Houseguest

footsteps of Richards I and Richards II. I suppose it was inevitable for me, having been surrounded by attorneys who spoke fluent legalese. I can’t say entering the legal profession was my passion, but I can’t say it wasn’t either. It was what I knew. It was what was expected of me. It seemed more like my fate, rather than my calling. But it paid the bills, no matter how much the lavish lifestyle to which I’d made myself accustomed, required.
It was early May during my second year as a New Yorker when I first saw her. My colleague, Tom had joined me for a quick bite after a long session of reviewing and revising legal briefs. Tom was married and his wife was not thrilled about his late nights at the office. I could see in his eyes that he possessed that passion for the profession that was lacking in me. His marriage would eventually be nothing more than collateral damage in his pursuit for success.
She was standing in the doorway of the pub. She had long dark hair that flowed around the frame of her face before layers began cascading over her shoulders, and I couldn’t stop staring at her. Fortunately for me, she was engrossed in reading words from a spiral notebook, the kind you can buy in any drugstore clearance bin for a buck. I was intrigued by her countenance, her focus, and the apparent obliviousness that I, and others, had been shamelessly admiring her loveliness. Maybe it was that indifference I found most attractive.
New York is famous for their neighborhood pubs and this place fit every description of a stereotypical Irish tavern. It had a long wooden L-shaped bar facing stools that exposed their white underbelly through torn faux leather seat covers. The faint distinct smell of cigarette smoke
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life