I hate this.
Everyday for the last two weeks I've been copying old, inventory lists into my company's newly established electronic registries. It's a horrendously monotonous job that requires next to no brain activity. Yet, thanks to the sheer number of entries that have to be made, a long day's drudgery is always ensured.
Okay, enough.
I shut off my monitor, flop back in my chair, and gaze blankly at the ceiling, thankful to be looking at something that isn't a monitor. A few peaceful, work-free, minutes drift by before I realize that the only thing more mind-numbing than doing next to nothing is doing nothing at all and I hurriedly begin scanning my cubicle for something, anything, to stave off the boredom. After a few passes my eyes fall on the makeshift display case resting on my desk; three old, college textbooks, lain flat, that proudly bear the entirety of my life's notable achievements.
The newest addition to this pile of pride is a palm-sized, two-year service medallion, awarded for my ability to remain employable up to today. Directly underneath it, in a burnished silver frame, is a four-year computer science degree that I'd struggled to complete in five. An assortment of participation awards for a myriad of sports events are clustered nearby and leaning against a spirit award for discus is a small, leather folder. It contains my high school diploma. I snatch it up from the display case, taking care not to topple the supporting award, and run my fingertips nostalgically along its black, leather binding. Something slips loose from the folder and flutters softly to the floor; it's a picture of my graduating class. There's me, in the front row, shoulder-to-shoulder with a rosy-cheeked, teenage beauty. Our hands are clasped tightly together for fear we might drift apart.
Elisa.
We met in grade school during an especially aggressive dodgeball game and by junior high we had become fast friends. In high school, after a memorable camping trip that involved a smuggled six-pack of Coors and moonlit skinny dipping, we started our relationship proper. We were inseparable. Hours were spent on the phone basking in each others voices, lengthy sonnets were composed extolling each others virtues, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross our path was annoyed half to death. Every moment with Elisa had been bliss. Of course, all the time we spent gazing into each others eyes took its toll on our studies. College applications came around and only one school, on the opposite side of the country, had been willing to risk having me as a student; Elisa hadn't even managed that.
The news came as a devastating blow, but we were adults and after a serious, hour-long discussion, it was clear what needed to be done. My love for Elisa was something special, school could wait. Later that evening I asked to speak with my father. We stepped into the living room and, bathed in the warm glow of the fireplace, I calmly explained my plans to forgo college in order to remain with Elisa. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at me, his head slightly cocked, as if I'd proclaimed myself the king of Gumdrop Mountain.
“You can't be serious.” he said, finally breaking the silence.
Things had broken down from there. He tried to talk me out of it. He yelled, he begged, and he pleaded, but I stood resolute through it all.
“Dad, you just don't understand our- ”
Smack!
My vision burst bright white and my mind went blank as my father's palm exploded across my cheek. My fingers brushed my face uncertainly as I willed my shaky knees to support me. “Can't you see how stupid you're being!?” he had shouted through teary, red eyes, his voice brimming with frustration. I just stared back at him stupidly. Never before had my father struck me.
The very next morning I went to Elisa's house and explained to her the benefits of a long-distance relationship. One last summer was spent talking about how much we'd miss each other and then I departed in a flurry of kisses and promises. The strains of study, part-time jobs, and fifteen-hundred miles of soil, took it's toll however and within a year I lost touch completely. Now, years later, I'm performing meaningless labor in a dreary cubicle while the love that my father forced me to leave behind gazes happily up at me from a piece of celluloid.
I wonder what she's up to?
A few keystrokes in Google and the profile photo I pull up tells me everything I need to know. The vibrant sparkle her eyes had once held is dead and gone and her childhood beauty has fled in what looks to have been a hurry. A frowning child balanced precariously in the crook of her arm suggests that her current occupation is 'between husbands'. A small grin threatens to escape my lips as I caress my stinging cheek. Silently, I close the web browser and return to work.