“Mr. Pearlstein?” Tara tentatively called as she tapped on the cold glass of the heavy office door.
“Yes?” Mr. Pearlstein muttered, only half-listening as he glanced through the reports sitting before him. They were poorly written, and full of errors, but they managed to help him fight the intense urge to rip his coat off the hook and catch the next elevator into the streets in search of the nearest pack of cigarettes he could lay his hands on.
“Mr. Bailey called. He wanted to make sure you were still on board for that golf game tomorrow.”
    “Yes, yes. Weather permitting, I’ll be there. Don’t worry about it though, I’ll call him myself shortly.” The setting sun. “Why don’t you go ahead and go home, Tara? It’s close enough to five. Go enjoy your weekend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pearlstein.” Tara flashed her imperfectly perfect teeth at him for a few moment, shifting her weight from one leg to another as she busied herself with the minor faults in her skirt. Mr. Pearlstein, noticing that she had not yet left, adjusted his glasses to better view her and allowed her a rare chance with his undivided attention.
“Was there something else?”
“No, nothing important anyway. I’ll see you Monday.”
“See you, Tara.” As she darted out of his office and began gathering up her things quicker than a refugee fleeing war, he found himself running his hands through his orange hair in a way he had not done since he was a schoolboy. Once Tara had found everything she needed, she placed a small hat over her light brown hair, took one last look into his office, gave a lingering wave of the hand, and rushed for the elevator at the end of the hall that was quickly losing free space.
Alone for the night, Mr. Pearlstein let out a weary sigh and leaned back in his chair, allowing him a moment’s respite from the woes of business.
What’s the use of it all?
France. Cigarettes and coffee under a brightly lit moon, pining for days gone by.
Japan. Green hills smelling of rain, quietly passing an afternoon with tea.
Ireland. Stories of exaggerated heroism and bravery shouted from across the pub.
And no matter what, there’s always a head of chestnut hair sitting next to me.
In another time, another life, there were days where I pined for nothing but “normal.”
A life full of adventure and promise, given up for the comforts of monotony.
“Arnold!” a singsong voice called out, jarring him from his melancholy reverie. Reality settled as the fantasies raced away, and Mr. Pearlstein leapt from his chair. Opening the door to his office, he was greeted with nothing more than an eerie silence.
“Arnold!” The voice called out to him again. Immensely curious, he checked all over his office for the mystery voice, going as far to check his cell phone to see if he had accidentally called someone. With no immediately obvious source available, his heart began to race slightly. He left his office, opening the doors to each and every office near him, but there was no culprit to be found from his search. He returned to an empty, quiet office and tried to relax.
Guess it wasn't anything. Maybe I should try to go home and get some sleep. He walked over to his coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Weird though, it sounded really familiar, almost like—
“Yoohoo, Arnold!” The voice called again, accompanied this time by the sound of light, playful tapping against glass, but there was nobody at the door in front of him. The tapping was coming from the window of his office on the twenty-third floor.
He pulled back the blinds and nearly shouted in surprise. Floating in front of him, hanging by one arm from the same flying yellow school bus he had known so well as a child, and waving with uncontainable joy, was a woman.
Her face held many more scars of laughter than when he had last seen her, but the bun of bright orange hair was unmistakable, as was her ridiculously green dress adorned with a hundred blue butterflies. He raised his right hand in greeting, and she placed her hand against the incredibly thick glass between them, smiling at him in the same way she had always done. He laid his hand upon the glass as well and attempted to form one of the thousand questions he had upon his lips, but the elevator behind him chimed, and he turned to see that the janitor was beginning his rounds.
“What're you doing here—” he finally asked as he returned his attention to her. But when he turned back, she was gone, leaving only the empty sky laid out in front of him. The only evidence that he had not imagined the scene was a small handprint on the other side of the glass. He was left alone to stand in solemn disbelief.
It's time to take risks.
He turned around and picked up his office phone, adjusting his jacket as he did so.
“Mr. Bailey, how are you tonight? I’m well, thank you sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to postpone our golf game, how is Sunday looking for you? Excellent, I'll see you then. Goodbye.”
He quickly hung the phone up, and dug his cellphone out of his pocket before dialing. Each ring of the phone sent his heart further into his throat, and he fought the desperate urge to hang up before it was answered.
I can't fear making mistakes.
“Hey, Tara. No, no, nothing's wrong. I was actually wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch tomorrow, off the clock.”
Let's make life messy.