Saudade

I live a very boring life, and it's not a problem because it's my boring life. Or at least, it wasn't a problem. I wake up every morning at 6 to walk my French bulldog, Frieda, around the block three times. After that, I go home, take a shower, get dressed in the same boring outfit (a blouse, skirt, and practical heels because I have to take a lot of stairs and don't really like the idea of breaking my neck in an attempt to be fashionable), then make myself breakfast. My room mate, Quincy, works at a plant nursery, and when she's home she makes breakfast. But she hasn't actually spent the night here in almost three weeks.

She spends most nights with her boyfriend, Ryan. And it's never really bothered me because he's a nice guy and she's a nice girl, and they're happy together.

When I'm done with breakfast - an apple, some toast and eggs, and a glass of milk since I'm not big on coffee - I get my bag together for work, grab my lunch, and kiss Frieda goodbye. I work at a record label. And before you get excited, I work for the marketing division and spend my days staring at pictures of famous singers and making advertisements for their tours or records or promotional events.

It's not as glamorous as it sounds, not really. Once every couple of weeks, I have presentations to do and things like that, but besides that, I don't do much else. I start at eight and leave at four. I usually pick up some take out if I don't feel like making dinner, sit in front of the TV and watch a few hours worth of whatever's on that piques my interest, then take a shower and go to sleep. Some nights, if I feel up to it, I read some poetry or watch a film and then go to sleep.

But the point is that my life is pretty plain, and I really did like it that way.

Or at least I did until Quincy and Ryan announced their engagement, and I started to wonder what exactly it was that I was doing with my life.

Today is one of those days.

Quincy is going over fabrics for her dress - because Quincy can't be normal and just go buy a dress like everyone else does, no, she has to go out and get one made - again, but at least she made breakfast today. But it's one of Ryan's weird gluten free things, much to my disdain. I sigh and grab some coffee - I'll pick up a donut on the way - and say goodbye to Frieda and Quincy.

I spend the entire fifteen minute drive to work asking myself why I'm so upset about Quincy and Ryan. I mean, I'm happy for them - I am, really, because they're both two eccentric people who have somehow managed to fall in love with each other and want to spend their lives together and that's beautiful, but I'm still upset. Why? I'm not jealous - Ryan's nice and all, but he's weird sometimes - but I still feel bad.

It turns out that I don't have to run out for donuts because someone bought two dozen and they're in the break room. I pick out an éclair with a napkin and take it back with me to my desk. (It's probably going to be the highlight of my very monotonous, boring week.)

I'm staring at my screen - I should probably at least pretend to do something - but I don't care. Not really. I'm still thinking about Quincy and Ryan. They're so adventurous and free and I wish I was too, but I'm not. Is that it? It can't be. I'm happy. I am totally happy.

I'm happy, right?

Right?

"Ma-Maisie?" I look up, pushing some of my hair behind my ears. It's Marcel. Of course it is. Coke bottle glasses, awkward comb over and that stupid argyle sweater vest and a white shirt. He has like five vests, and he alternates them throughout the week. I don't know why I hate the vests so much, but I do. He's leaning against my cubicle, shaky hands holding onto the top. "Can I, er, I um, I need the, uh - it's a - um - the stapler? I need to, er, borrow it, please," he stammered, laughing nervously.

"What happened to your stapler?"

I liked my stapler. It was one of the few in the office that still actually worked and I knew that if I gave it to him, someone else would want to borrow it from him, and then I'd never see it again.

"I - um - it's - I - uh - it's not working." His finger dug into his collar as I handed it to him blankly.

"Knock yourself out. I need it back, though."

I didn't really need it. Not really. But it wouldn't hurt to worry him a little.

"T-T-Thanks." I waved him off, then went back to my e-mails.

Quincy and Ryan just sent out invites to the first of many engagement parties - because they just had so many friends and family members that one party wouldn't be enough to be congratulated by everyone - and I had to go to all of them, because Quincy simply couldn't fathom the thought of me staying in and watching TV like I did every other night.



I talked to her today. I mean, I really actually talked to her. And yeah, it was only about her stapler - which I didn't need because I obviously have two back up staplers - but it still has to count for something. She was pretty today, and I mean, she always is, but still. Her dirty blonde hair was down today, for once, which makes me wonder if she woke up late because she usually puts it up. Not that I'm complaining, but still.

Maisie was sad today. I could tell. Even if we talk maybe once or twice a week, and even then it's in passing, I still feel like I know her well because we work together and her cubicle's right across the hall from mine. I can't help watching her. She's right there, and she's Maisie.

Maisie Wells.

Anyway, she was sad. And I don't know about what, not really. Maybe she fought with her boyfriend or something? Because a girl like Maisie has to have a boyfriend or a fiancée or something because she's pretty and smart and amazing and smells like vanilla. Whatever it was, she didn't seem like herself today. Not at all. And it's not like Maisie is a social butterfly, but she's usually a bit more talkative and she smiles a little, laughs and goes out to lunch and buys coffee for everyone, sometimes (even me).

But today she just sat and stared at her computer, ate her donut slowly, ate lunch by herself, in the break room, even though it was nice outside today and she liked eating on the terrace.

Something's not quite right with Maisie.

And it's not like I can ask her what's wrong, because I can barely ask her for a pen or a stapler without breaking out in hives and sweating to death. But I want to know because I want to see her smile again.

I've felt this way about Maisie for the last year and it's starting to get a little bit out of control. I can't even concentrate at work anymore. And when she's not there, I still worry and feel bad because she's always there, so if she missed work, she has to be really sick.

Maybe she's getting sick.

I walk into my quiet loft and kick off my shoes, throwing my bag on the couch.

"Hey!" I jump and make a face, leaning against the door with wide eyes. Harry, my older brother, is sitting on my couch, eating a bowl of popcorn and watching some reality TV show. I should really keep up on pop culture, considering what my job is, but I don't have the time. Harry does, of course. "Watch it!"

"What are you doing here?" I ask softly, not even bothering to apologize because he does this to me all the damn time. He just pops up and crashes on my couch for however long he feels like. He's a travelling musician, and between tours he feels like my couch is his home. And I don't mind letting him stay with me, not at all - he's my brother, for crying out loud - but I do mind him showing up and breaking in. He doesn't have a key because I just know he'll lose it - because he loses everything - and I don't really like the idea of the key to my apartment floating around Greenwich Village. Even if the person who finds it probably won't know what door it belongs to. I don't know.

"I broke up with Ivy."

Ah, yes. The famous Ivy. Harry and Ivy had been on and off for years. Either Ivy cheated or Harry cheated or they kept fighting or something, it was always something with them and they always broke up. And then a week or so later, they'd go crawling back to each other and the cycle would start all over again.

I say nothing and walk into the kitchen to make myself something to eat for dinner, rolling my eyes.

"For good, this time," he amends, leaning against the kitchen doorway. "I'm going to get my own space soon, I just - "

"No, don't be silly. Stay here. I'll fix up the pull out in a minute." I smile and pull a box of pasta from the cabinet. “It’s cool.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t want to be a burden - ”

“It’s okay, Harry.”

And if my mom finds out that I didn’t let Harry stay with me, she’d freak out. So here we are. And I don’t mind having the company, not really. When he goes out, he has the decency not to bring any girls over, and if he’s having a party, he usually tells me a few days in advance so I can find something to do. Because I’m obviously not the partying type. Not for lack of trying, though, because Harry did, sometimes, take me out to parties or clubs to get me to meet girls and make new friends, but the problem was that whenever I talked to another girl, I thought of Maisie, and I could barely introduce myself, much less try to seduce them.

“So, how’s it going? Have you met anyone?” he asks, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

I shoot him a look, making a small face as I turn back to the pasta box. Marinara or Alfredo sauce, that’s the real question.

“Marcel?”

I don’t want to talk to him about Maisie. I don’t. Because the moment I do, he’s going to want to meet her. And it’s not like Maisie is weird or anything - far from it - but I know that she’s going to like him more than she likes me. And I know she doesn’t like me. I know that. I’m not stupid, but I am a hopeless romantic, so maybe they’re the same thing. Harry is everything I’m not - handsome, tall (though I am a little tall too, but still an inch or so shorter than he is), rebellious and dark and brooding, and most girls like that sort of thing, don’t they? And I know he’ll like her too - who wouldn’t? They’ll get together and be happy and amazing and have a bunch of pretty kids and run off into the sunset on his stupid motorcycle.

So I can’t tell him about Maisie. Not at all.