oh, mr president | H.S.

ONE: Table for Kensington

"Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence." - George Washington

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O N E : Table for Kensington
O P H E L I A

        Nine hundred and thirteen days. That's the exact amount of time I've been within several jobs, but not a solid career. Desk jobs that include filing, copying, and organizing for prestige lawyers in Massachusetts are a drag to participate in. The pay grade is higher than what an average college graduate would earn, and it mortifies me that I only stay for that alone. Not for the context and excitement a career should bring.

        My father exclusively pulled one of his favors within the state to place me in this uncomfortable office chair at Ashbridge & Erickson, a top criminal law firm that handles Massachusetts' biggest murders, robberies, and other criminal convictions. The gentleman are both intelligent human beings, and have offered me, multiple times, dinner or a promotion (to either of their personal assistant) which I rightfully declined. Working beside them was decent, but it was not enough to fulfill my natural desire for writing.

I am the leader of the words that translate on to the paper; the metaphorical lines I write transform visually for the reader as they are snatched inside the imaginary world of no limitations. Inside this fictitious land, I hold an astounding amount of power. However with my talents, my father did not allow the participation in the construction of fiction novels. He preferred non-fictional pieces that would 'attract intellectuals' rather than mere dreamers. He called my dream of becoming an author a joke, yammering about how we always want what we certainly can not possess. If only.

"Fee," A voice called out to me to distract from my daydream, "Daddy Dave would like to see you in his office."

Charlotte's slouching figure over the front desk collected as I blinked rapidly to return to reality. Her coffee-colored strands happened to fall from the bun that flopped around on the top of her whenever she moved. Because of our closeness since the beginning of high school, my father agreed that having Charlotte with me, with a load of men prancing around the office, would be a plausible idea. He worked up on Dave Erickson to permit her as an intern on the payroll.

"You really should stop calling him that," My legs supported me as I rose from the chair, flattening the wrinkled material of my pencil skirt. "Before he actually hears you."

"And what is he going to do?" She quirked her eyebrows upwards as she straightened her posture.

Dave Erickson was an elderly man who thought he was in the peak of his twenties. With his wealth, women naturally flocked to him with the hopes of wooing him enough to land on his will, and because of that, his head filled with the legend that instead of being nearly seventy, he was twenty five. Personally, I think he is going through a end-life crisis but who am I to judge?

"Ophelia, baby," Dave's voice raised through the open doors of his massive office a few steps away from the reception desk. "I need you in here right now."

The manner in which his croaking, but raspy voice used that construction of a sentence frightened me enough to quietly snicker with my beloved friend. She gestured me to hurry, then figured she would return to her assigned office space near Gregory Ashbridge's side. My heels pattered across the granite flooring until they crossed over the hinges of his portal.