Bound By Fire And Fated By Blood

The City I Built Myself Emma The alarm screams at six fifteen and I slap it silent with the kind of precision that comes from years of practice. My studio apartment in Brooklyn is small and cluttered and entirely mine, and I love every square inch of it even when the radiator clangs like a dying animal at three in the morning. I roll out of bed and my feet hit the cold floor and I shuffle to the kitchen, which is really just the corner of the room with a counter and a stove and an espresso machine that I bought used from a man on Craigslist who assured me it worked perfectly. It does not work perfectly. It works aggressively and inconsistently, which is either a metaphor for my life or just a faulty heating element. I press the button and it groans and sputters and then produces something that is almost coffee and I take it black because I am a grown woman and cream is a luxury I schedule for Fridays. The shower runs hot and I stand under it longer than I should and think about the day ahead. I have a meeting with a client at ten and the revisions on the Whitmore project are due by end of day and my boss, Richard Chen, will have opinions about those revisions that he will express in a tone that suggests he is doing me a favor by allowing me to fix the things he broke. I have worked at Whitmore and Chen Associates for two years and I am good at my job and I know it and Richard knows it and he still introduces me to clients as his junior associate, which is technically accurate but spiritually insulting. I get dressed. Dark jeans, a fitted blazer, boots with a heel that says I am professional but also do not test me. I pull my auburn hair into a loose twist and look at myself in the mirror on the back of the door. I am not a woman who spends an hour on makeup. I am a woman who spends ten minutes and makes it count. A touch of mascara, a sweep of tinted balm, and I am out the door because the train will not wait and neither will Richard. The walk to the subway takes seven minutes and I know this because I have timed it on three separate occasions and the consistency is the only reliable thing about the New York transit system. I pass the bodega on the corner where the owner, a man named Paco who has been there since before I moved to this neighborhood, waves at me through the window. I wave back. He gives me a free orange sometimes and I give him a Christmas card and this is the closest thing I have to a family tradition and I am fine with that. The train is packed and I stand with my bag pressed against my chest and my coffee balanced in one hand and I do not complain because complaining about the subway in New York is like complaining about gravity. It just is. You deal with it or you leave and I am not leaving. I came to this city nine years ago with a scholarship to Columbia and a duffel bag and a chip on my shoulder the size of the Manhattan skyline and I have built a life here and it is mine and I will stand on a crowded train every morning for the rest of my life if that is what it takes. The office is in Midtown, a glass and steel building that is unremarkable from the outside but contains a floor of architects who think they are changing the world one floor plan at a time. I swipe my badge and take the elevator to the fourteenth floor and the first person I see is Derek. Derek is a man I have never liked and the feeling is mutual and we both pretend otherwise with a professionalism that would be admirable if it were not so transparent. He is tall and blond and went to Cornell and reminds people of this at every opportunity and he has been taking credit for my work since the day I started. "Emma," he says with a smile that does not reach his eyes. "Did you finish the Whitmore revisions? Richard was asking about them." "I finished them last night," I say. "And I sent them to Richard directly. I assumed he would share them with the team." The smile flickers. "Right. Well, I had some thoughts on the structural approach and I was going to suggest a few changes." "You mean the changes I already made in the revision I sent at eleven PM last night?" Silence. The smile is gone now, replaced by something tight and thin around the mouth. I do not feel bad. I have never felt bad about being honest. My mother died when I was four and I grew up in a system that did not reward silence or politeness, it rewarded the kids who spoke up and fought for what they needed, and I learned that lesson early and it stuck. Some people think I am too blunt. Some people are welcome to their opinions. I go to my desk and open my laptop and the morning passes in a blur of measurements and materials and the low hum of an office that is pretending to be productive while actually waiting for lunch. I am deep into a detail on the Whitmore project, specifically the way the lobby columns interact with the natural light from the eastern windows, when my phone buzzes. Nora. My best friend and the only person in this city who knows me well enough to know when I am lying when I say I am fine. * Lunch. The Thai place on 46th. 12:30. Don't argue. * I do not argue. I go. Nora is already seated when I arrive, a glass of water in front of her and a look on her face that says she has something to say. Nora is a paralegal at a firm downtown and she is five foot two with dark hair and a mouth that could negotiate a hostage situation to a peaceful resolution. She is the best person I know and I do not tell her that often enough. "You look tired," she says. "I look like a person who works for a living." "You look like a person who works for a living and also does not sleep. Which is accurate but concerning. How is the Whitmore project?" "Richard changed the load-bearing specs again. For the third time. I told him the original design was structurally superior and he told me he appreciated my enthusiasm and then did it anyway." "Ah. The Richard Chen Special. Compliment followed by complete disregard." "His signature move." The food comes and we eat and Nora tells me about a date she went on that ended with the man asking if she could wear her glasses during dinner because he had a thing for women in glasses. She says this with the deadpan delivery of someone who has been on so many bad dates that they no longer surprise her, only amuse her. "What about you?" she asks. "Any dates in the pipeline?" "I am done with men for a while." "You have been done with men for a while." "Now I am done with them more." "What happened to the one from last week? The finance guy?" "He spent forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency to me and then asked if I could cover half the bill because he had a large rent payment coming up." Nora winces. "The one before that?" "Cried during dessert. Told me about his ex. For an hour." "And the one before that?" "Wore a fedora indoors and referred to himself as an alpha male unironically." Nora laughs and I laugh and it feels good. She tells me I am too picky and I tell her I am not picky enough because I keep going on these dates in the first place. She says maybe I should try a different type of man and I say maybe I should try being alone for a while because it is honest and peaceful and nobody has ever cried into their cheesecake while alone. "You know what your problem is?" Nora says. "I am sure you will tell me." "You are so independent that you do not let anyone in. You built this whole life by yourself and you are proud of it and you should be. But you also use it as a wall. You do not need anyone so you do not let anyone close enough to want them." She says this gently and I know she means it kindly and I also know she is right and I hate her a little for it. "I let you in," I say. "I am your friend, not your boyfriend. Different door." I do not have a response to that so I eat my pad thai and change the subject to work and she lets me. The afternoon passes. The meeting with the client goes well because I am prepared and competent and I do not let Richard steamroll me. The revisions are submitted. Derek tries to claim credit in the team meeting and I correct him in front of everyone with a smile that is all teeth and no warmth. Richard gives me a look and I give him one back that says do not even think about it. I leave the office at six and the city is golden and I walk because I love walking in this city at this hour. The light hits the buildings and the streets and the people and everything looks like it is glowing and I think that if I could design a building that made people feel the way this light makes me feel then I would have done something right with my life. I take the long way home through the park and the trees are turning and the air has that crisp edge that says autumn is coming and I breathe it in and I feel the city in my bones. I do not need anyone. I do not need a man or a relationship or anything other than this, this city and this life and this version of myself that I built from nothing. I get home and water my plants and make dinner and read a book and watch half a movie and text Nora a meme about bad dates and go to bed. I lie in the dark and the radiator clanks and the city hums outside my window and I am content. I am content. I go to sleep alone and I do not know that everything is about to change.