New Year's Steve

1

Felicity

“All I want for New Years, is youuuuu, bay-bee…”

I am still feeling that post-Christmas buzz.

The eggnog might be dried up from the holiday party, but my desk chair is swiveling, and I’m humming along to the same song I started playing November first. Sure, I might have to change up the words to suit the current holiday fever in the air, but as long as the radio keeps playing it, I’m going to listen.

No one can hear it anyway; last year I was promoted and with that comes a swanky private office.

I kick the volume up a notch on my wireless speaker perched in the corner of my work space and flick the gold, black, and silver streamer the office administrative staff decorated my computer monitor with, fingers and pen tapping along to the tune.

“…I just want you for my own, more than you will ever know…” I sing, voice cracking because I may be a lot of things, but a musical diva is not one of them.

I pause when the overhead light above me flashes, more suited to a Halloween fun house than an office space, and frown. I stop singing to stare, waiting and watching for it to flash again.

Flicker.

There!

There it goes!

This will not do. I cannot be distracted by the damn light flashing and flicking and doing whatever else it’s going to do while I’m busting my ass to get these Year End reconciliations done. I simply do not have the time to be distracted.

Despite my repeated calls to maintenance over the last two weeks, the guys down in that department haven’t found time to fit me in. Which means I’ve been living with the occasional blinding light for fourteen days.

This feels oddly like I’m back in college, living in a crappy house with a group of my friends, trying to get the landlord to come fix something that we wrecked. A broken smoke detector. The handle falling off the front door. Catch the bat that got in through the chimney…

Still, I shouldn’t have to wait two entire weeks for someone to come take a look at this! Bring a new lightbulb, fix a wire. I don’t know — something to make it stop!

My eyes stray to the cubicles outside my office and the hustle and bustle of everyone working for the McGinnis Agency.

Hustle, hustle, hustle.

No one is stopping to chat, everyone wanting to finish early and head home because tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.

In spite of the jacked-up lighting, I’m feeling fantastic. I’ve been in my groove, fingers moving like rapid fire over the keyboard as I work in the accounting software, reviewing those reconciliations to check and double check that all entries can be made prior to close of business tomorrow.

And as a reward for all my hard work?

My date.

It’ll be the first time I meet the man I’ve been chatting with online and on New Year’s Eve no less. I’m equally excited and nervous, but mostly stressed by how much needs to get done before then.

The clock is ticking on this deadline, but I’m the department head and know we’re going to finish in time. I keep my head bent over my keyboard, glasses perched on the bridge of my nose, working away.

Even if I have to stay all night tonight — alone — and work this late tomorrow, we are going to get these ledgers finished. No rest for the weary and all that jazz. I’m willing to do the work on my own, even though I have an entire team behind me busting their butts, too.

I roll my chair backwards to swipe a sheet of paper from the printer, and the lights flash.

Flicker.

Flicker, flicker.

I frown as there’s a soft knock at my door.

“Knock, knock.” It’s Meg McClaren, one of my work friends who’s also one of the best female sports agents in the business.

Meg walks in and perches herself on the end of my desk, poking the tip of her fingers at a glittery little disco ball that will double as my own personal ball dropping tomorrow if I’m not out of here by midnight.

“Tabitha and I are going downtown for lunch, wanna come?”

I sigh because I like them both so much, but groan because I can’t go with them. There is just no way. “Ugh, I’d love to but I can’t.” I lift a sheaf of papers off the desk then set them back down. “I have to enter all this into the system, and I don’t want to lose an hour.” I frown at her. “I’m sorry.”

Adulting is hard.

My friend stands, the black tights she has on sparkle with silver stars, catching the light. When it flickers again, she glances up. “What’s wrong with your light?”

“No idea but it’s driving me bonkers.”

“You should call maintenance,” she tells me helpfully.

“I have. Like a dozen times. I don’t know what I have to do to get someone up here. I’m going to be cross-eyed pretty soon.”