The Trouble with Women

Countdown

MORNING LIGHT SLICES aggressively through an opening in the blackout curtains. The sharp blade of sunshine cuts straight across the pillows, and I'm forced to relinquish my hold on the little bit of sleep I'd finally cornered.

I yawn, allowing myself a catlike stretch under the body-warm, soft cotton sheets. I pull the other pillow toward me like a lover I can't bear to leave.

But I must. It's Friday. A dreaded 'in-office' day. No home visits to save me from the dusty tedium of the beige-walled sanctum of social service. The office has always felt to me like a cage. When I'm in it, I pace the halls like a restless animal under the watchful eye of a tyrannical guard—the clock that ticks off minutes like a geriatric teacher taking endless attendance.

Dolly? Here.

Dolly? Here.

Dolly? Still here.

Hours of that, until the day finally comes to its graceless close and, because it's Friday, the workweek too. But as one cage door swings rustily open, another clangs shut behind me, and I find myself re-trapped by the spectre of two full days of aloneness.

I might go out with co-workers if an end-of-week drink is suggested—anything to delay the isolation.

I might see Becks for Saturday lunch or a manicure if she doesn't have plans with Roger. He, of course, takes priority.

If I'm desperate, I can video-call my mother, but she has a way of poking at the past until I come away feeling less sure of myself than I went in. She insists, for example, on calling me Dolores instead of Dolly.

That's the name we gave you, she says, an obstinate refusal to acknowledge the reason I want to cut ties with my younger self.

Ugh. But first, I need to get through Friday.

With great reluctance, I release the pillow from my loving embrace and push the duvet off. Come on, Dolly, time to face the day. I pull my robe around my cold shoulders and head toward the kitchen.

The coffee machine, at least, is delighted to see me.

Good morning, Dolly! she says chirpily when she senses my unique bio-print enter the kitchen. A double today?

"Yes, please," I reply gratefully. Politeness isn't necessary when dealing with smart appliances, but it's a habit I find hard to break in myself. Kindness doesn't cost a thing, my mother likes to point out.

As the coffee machine whirrs and purrs, I flick through the news headlines on the kitchen screen. I'm looking for stories like the ones in Becks' folder, but all I see are the usual global catastrophes.

Wildfires tear through the southwestern states.

Air quality at emergency levels in Los Angeles.

Florida is a fluid landscape of flame and flood.

Displaced Australians continue to swamp temporary immigration camps in Japan, Russia, and Canada as they flee the heat of a barely habitable continent.

Maybe saddest of all, there's a countdown clock as the world prepares to say a final goodbye to Hawaii's beaches; a process that should have taken millions of years sped up by the recent surge in sea levels.

Coffee's ready, Dolly! Her cheery voice interrupts my doom-scrolling. Have a wonderful day.

I gratefully pick up the fresh cup of espresso.

"Fat chance," I call over my shoulder as I head off to get dressed.

THE OFFICE IS more stifling and beige than usual this morning. The dry air seems to cannon from the ceiling vents, making my hair, skin and eyes feel scratchy and irritated. I'll feel like a parched iguana after a day of sitting at these desks.