The Girl Who Came Alive In The City
The quiet hum of several Canon printers saturate the office with a dusty familiarity — doors are flung open and closed as paralegals and attorneys bounce from room to room, reheated coffee in worn ceramic mugs clutched in one hand, redacted documents in the other.
‘Good morning’s and ‘How are you?’s are tossed lightly through the air as light switches flicker on, blanketing the center room in faded yellow light while the eighty-thirty-am sun streams through the windows in the outermost offices. The soft glimmer of the morning light filters through the birch branches and warms the tips of my toes, exposed in my worn sandals– I can tell that today is going to be a good day.
Tuesday mornings are full of life. Commuters are no longer yawning away the comforting refuge of the weekend or slowly swaying to the rhythm of a new week on the same bus route like they were yesterday, having spent the last half-hour sleepily tugging on a clean collared shirt before stumbling out the door to face another bleak Monday morning.
The city is alive on Tuesdays. The already-familiar faces of Route 545 are now bright and alert, warmly observing the fleeting helmets of bikers making their way across the blustery SR-520 Bridge into downtown Seattle. The sky is a brilliant royal blue, covered in diffused tufts of cotton-ball clouds that reflect onto Lake Washington while the wind whips the clear waves into an animated dance, rocking the boats back and forth as if greeting them with a buoyant welcome. Even the water is wide awake.
I step off of the bus and shake out the tightness in my muscles before bouncing up the stairs and into the dimly lit entrance of the courthouse. The elevator is rich with the aroma of delicate perfumes and fiery colognes dancing together in the warmth of so much human closeness. We move as one, a mass of lawyers and interns, paralegals and jurors, judges and defendants, towards the marble columns that stretch towards the ceilings and point to our respective departments.
Around noon, the sparkling sunlight calls me out of my chair and towards exploration — I can’t find it within myself to ignore its compelling tug. Lunchtimes are for wandering the avenues and terraces of Pioneer Square. Cubicle life, while constant, comfortable, and uncomplicated, often feels lonely; I crave the feeling of authentic human connection more powerfully than I ever have before. After I realized this, I began to use my lunchtime expeditions laughing with strangers waiting on crowded street corners and joking with baristas who ask me about the book I always have tucked underneath my arm. The deafening blare of jackhammers and the gruff shouts of the handful of construction workers tangle up into a chaotic symphony of the city — joyful street musicians craft percussion-soaked rhythms that thump in my chest while the sharp hiss of a bus pulling away from its stop sends shivers down my spine.
IS THIS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE ALIVE?
My thin blouse ripples in the wind and I’m instantly made more aware of the textures pressed into my skin. The starched linen of my yellow hatched shorts dig into my upper thighs while my sheer satin blouse tickles my ribcage, and I pause for a moment to enjoy the hitched breath that tightens in my chest as the sensation tingles across my arms.
Moving to rest my chin against my knee, I’m tucked into my own little corner of the world. I have come to realize that aloneness in the city doesn’t make me afraid. There is an extraordinary vulnerability that rests in playing such a tiny part in this large, sprawling urban center but I don’t ever feel small — instead, the vibrant smells of strong black coffee and bitter cigarette smoke amongst the damp scent of freshly watered flowerpots make me feel safe. I know that I belong here.
I walk towards Pier 57 and almost immediately hear the harsh wailing of the seagulls resting on top of the temporary construction buildings along Alaskan Way. The pier is crowded with tourists clambering onto cruise ships and tug boats while their kids wander along in life vests that always seem just a touch too big for their small bodies — I continue wandering along the bustling street and feel the sun warm the back of my neck. The smell of piping hot fish and chips doused in sour vinegar makes my stomach growl.
THIS LIFE COULD LAST FOREVER.
I make my way back to the office eventually and wait for my eyes to adjust to the blue light of my computer monitor. My day finishes quickly and I bid the office farewell before stepping onto crowded Fourth Avenue, waiting to catch the bus that will take me back across the now-still water. We slowly rumble through the sea of red brake lights in the hazy Seattle sunset and I notice that the bright morning chatter has transformed into a quiet drowsiness; the masses are finally making their way home.
