Forever Right Now

I grinned. “How do you feel about tuna casserole?”

Sawyer

I typed the final sentence on my second of two Performance Tests. I was instructed to research, analyze, and support a solution to the case as if I were a practicing attorney. Earlier that day, I had written three essays, each requiring a demonstrated knowledge of law and relevant precedents. The day before that I had written three others. Monday, I had answered two hundred Multistate Bar Exam questions over the course of six hours. My brain was fried, but I was done.

I read over the final draft of the PT, my eyes burning. I made a few changes, and then, with aching fingers and my stomach twisting in knots, I hit ‘save.’

Done. There’s no going back now.

A red light on the specialized testing computer lit up. In another room, the test proctor’s computer lit up with the same light, and the guy arrived at my closet-sized test space a few moments later.

“Finished?”

“That’s the exact right word,” I said.

“Yeah, you look pretty done,” he said. He checked my area one last time for any contraband items—especially those of the digital persuasion—but all my stuff was locked away in another room, including my cell phone, wallet, and even my watch.

I shuffled out of the testing center in the Sacramento Hilton, and through the lobby. Other potential attorneys had gathered in the bar for drinks at three in the afternoon. Their laughter was loud; years of study, stress, and long hours were over, for better or worse. 33% of us would pass. The rest would put in more study and stress to come back next year and try again. Or quit. I prayed to whatever god would listen that I was not one of them.

I veered away from the bar, and headed to the elevator bank. An attractive young woman in a black skirt and white blouse got into the elevator with me. Her blonde hair was up in a twist and her perfume filled the small space.

“Bar exam?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Me too.”

I was facing forward, but I felt her eyes rake me up and down. She shifted an inch closer to me.

“Why don’t sharks eat lawyers?” she asked.

I smiled faintly. “I think I’ve heard this one before.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard a million of them,” she said. “So? Why don’t sharks eat lawyers?”

“Professional courtesy,” I said.

She laughed. “Indeed. Your turn.”

I scrolled through my mental database. “How do you save a drowning lawyer?”

“How?”

“Take your foot off his head.”

The woman laughed again, and the elevator dinged her floor. She stood with her back against the door to hold it open, affording me a full view of her slender body and her breasts pushing against the silk of her blouse.

“So listen, that exam was a monster,” she said. “Want to have a drink with me? To celebrate? I may have already started a little bit at the bar,” she said with a small laugh, “but you can catch up.”

God, here it was; one of my oldest fantasies since I decided to become a lawyer come to life. A previous version of myself, the kind that had parties and never went on dates—only hookups—would’ve taken this woman up on her offer without a second thought. Hell, I would have made the offer.

And now…

I smiled thinly. “No, thanks. I’m with…someone.”

“Someone?” the woman said. “Girlfriend?”

I tried the thought on for size.