Page 51 - The Houseguest

every prosecution. I didn’t care about details, feelings, ethics, rules or lives, only winning.
Working 7 AM to 7 PM every day, ritual became important to me. It was something I controlled and therefore could rely upon not to fail me. After arriving home each evening, I would heat a prepared meal and retire after a warm cognac. The alarm would go off at 5:30 AM and the routine would begin again. Every morning, my trip to the office involved a visit to La Barista’s, a local Starbucks wannabe coffee house. And every morning, I ordered the same hot beverage -- not an espresso, cappuccino or latte, just a large and very ordinary black coffee. I felt like a robot, but if that’s what it took to endure, I would continue. The firm thrived and we made more money in the years since my return than we had in the years before my life, the one I wanted to live, had ended. The robot routine continued in the hopes that maybe extreme financial success would somehow occupy a part of the emptiness that filled my soul. But, no matter how much profit was earned, the void remained.
The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life
51