Reach for the stars, you idiot!

Everyone has a guardian angel, except you. You have a guardian demon


Chapter 1- Reach for the Stars, you idiot!

I jolted awake promptly at 7 AM by the sound of the alarm clock on Mark's side of the bed. He was not jolted, however, so it took him a full 30 seconds to slap it off. I lay awake watching him sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed, then stand and shuffle toward the bathroom. His boy-like bed head and the morning erection begging to be set free from under his boxer briefs made me chuckle as it filled my heart with affection.

The night before, he'd nudged me in the back with that erection until I conceded and gave him the sex he wanted. Sure, it cost me a half-hour of sleep, but I loved him, and I was happy to have the attention. Ordinarily, he'd be snoring and sleeping like a dead person. Nothing can keep a man from a good night's sleep. Except for a raging hard-on.

It occurred to me that with the exception of a handful of weeks he sometimes spent traveling for work, this was the view from my side of the bed every morning. Every morning I adored him more. Mark was the only man I had met who made me feel OK just as I was. No conditions, no caveats. He was there for me in the throes of my addiction, and he was there for me on the other side while I was (while I still am) mending. He always said jokingly I was his "fixer-upper".

I woke once again with a rush of adrenaline, followed by nausea, followed by a feeling of guilt with no source. My shrink says most likely I dream more frequently than I know of things that cause the feelings behind this odd waking ritual, but I'm not sure because I seldom remember my dreams. All I know is that I'm glad it only lasts for a matter of seconds before my baseline level of cognition returns because it's super uncomfortable.

Mornings are spent exchanging very few words between us. Normally this atmosphere would feel a little lonely (I'm a morning person, my husband is not) if it weren't for the fact that I learned a long time ago to accept that's just how he is and the less said the better. Nothing personal. Just keep it short and sweet.

After my own shower, I stood in the closet staring but not really staring at my underutilized wardrobe. I was lost in thought about what to expect from the day ahead. There were two trials to help Mr. Sawyer prepare for and a request for a meeting with him regarding a past case file. I knew these weren't going to be the only things to deal with today, only the things he had emailed me about at 8:30 last night.

It was pretty common for Mr. Sawyer to work late, which meant I had to work late. Or at least I had to be thinking about it long after I really wanted to be done thinking about it. A lot of people mistakenly think working for a high-profile lawyer is a prestigious, rewarding job. They really couldn't be more wrong.

"You should quit that job Opal, really!" Mark had told me on many occasions, scoffing. I know the subject irritated him. "He totally doesn't appreciate you and you work your ass off for less than half of what other people with your experience and education make. You could do so much better, you just underestimate yourself! Go after jobs you think are out of your reach, I guarantee you'll be pleasantly surprised."

My husband tries to be kind and encouraging. I sometimes detect a layer of impatience from him, he thinks this process is much simpler than it actually is. I'm not as marketable in the workplace as he thinks I am. "I know this stuff, Opal", he says, "I hire people all the time with less experience and education than you! I mean for God's sake woman, you have a master's degree, use it!" I wonder if he hires people with a record of drug use and petty theft, even if it was in the distant past? You'd be amazed how fast word travels in professional circles. Of course, it isn't legal to discuss stuff like that about a candidate, right? That doesn't matter for shit.

I've submitted more resumes and gone to more interviews than I can count, some of which have ended with a stoic departure on my part after a closed-door conversation about my "reliability". I have given it the college try for five years now. None have ended in even so much as an offer. I am the queen recipient of the "Thank you for your interest Mrs. Harris, but we have decided to hire from within the organization." email.

For this reason, despite the daily exploitation, I am profoundly grateful for the job I do have. Mark sees it as demeaning from the outside, but he doesn't understand the enormous favor Mr. Sawyer has done for me by hiring me, all things considered.

I felt the trademark sense of dread that accompanied the task of selecting an ensemble that was comfortable and concealed my belly fat while still looking effortlessly like an attractive paralegal for a self-important lawyer. A self-important lawyer who was very concerned with the image he projects via his office staff. His all-female office staff.

I selected a pair of black boot cut slacks, white button down collared shirt, and a blue knit cardigan sweater to help conceal the previously mentioned belly fat. A pair of sensible black thick heeled pumps completed my utterly forgettable ensemble that would be covered most of the day by a khaki trench coat.

I give the impression that I am completely unhappy with my appearance, but that's not entirely true. I've always had healthy, shiny hair in a dark brown that I think compliments my decent complexion. I've been told my whole life my eyes are sexy, too. So there's that. Mark seems to accept my imperfect body, and that's good enough for me, even though I avoid looking in the mirror coming out of the shower.

Mark rounded the corner of our tiny closet still buttoning his shirt frantically. "I've gotta go, I'll see you later on. Text me if you've got plans or want to get out for dinner." His voice sprinted to the door with him.

"K." was all I replied. You know, short and sweet. "Have a good day at work, there, Mr. Harris! I love you!" I called to him as he strode from the room. "You too..." came the faint reply from the front door right before I heard it slam shut. The poor man was always stressed, always in a hurry. We desperately needed to get away together.