Ulysses-right hand of the man who owns every inch of this building-stops what she’s doing when she sees me. One of them, the forty-year-old Catherine H.
But I hardly have eyes for anything except the tall and imposing frosted glass doors at the far end of the room.įraming those doors to each side is a pair of sleek designer desks, for a total of four.īehind these desks are four women in identical black-and-white suits, sitting behind their gleaming dark-oak desks, working quietly behind their flat-screen computers. Stepping out, I’m in corporate nirvana, surrounded by sleek chrome and pristine glass, marble and limestone floors. My stomach feels filled with little earthquakes that just won’t quit, then they turn into a full-fledged roil when I hear the elevator ting at his floor.
My blood is pumping-my blood is storming-my thighs are shaking. My riding companions step out on their floors one by one until I’m alone, riding up to the executive floor on my own. But I smile in reply-my smile nervous, nervous but hopeful, definitely hopeful. I think my mouth must be on vacation because I can’t seem to force it to speak. A handful of employees ride along with me, murmuring perfunctory greetings to each other and to me. I’ve never been so hopeful as when I board the pristine glass elevator at the M4 corporate building.
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