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"Great. Fucking great," he says in his normal snide tone.

"What?"

"What? What?" he shouts into the phone. I pull the receiver away from my ear but now I hear his voice in stereo, filling the hall. "You fucked up! That's what! The papers needed to go by hand! Didn't you bother to read the Court's order?"

I scan the letter from the judge. Damn, he is right.

"You're right," I say solemnly. He hates excuses and I have none anyway. "I screwed up."

"What are you, a goddamn first-year associate?"

I stare at my desk. He knows full well that I'm a fifth-year.

"I mean, Christ, Rachel, this is malpractice," he growls. "You're gonna get this firm sued and yourself fired if you don't get your head out of your ass."

"I'm sorry," I say, just as I remember that he hates you that much more when you're sorry.

"Don't be sorry! Fix the shit!" He hangs up on me. I don't believe Les has ever finished a conversation with a proper good-bye, even when he's in a decent mood.

No, I'm not a first-year, asshole. Thus your tirade has no effect. Go ahead, fire me. Who cares? I think back to when I first started working at the firm. A partner would raise his eyebrows, and it would send me back to my office with tears welling, panic mounting over my job security or at the very least my yearly evaluation. Over the years my skin has thickened somewhat, and at this moment, I don't care at all. I have bigger issues than this firm and my career as a lawyer. No, scratch the word "career." Careers are for people who wish to advance. I only want to survive, draw a paycheck. This is merely a job. I can take or leave this place. I start to imagine quitting and following my yet-to-be-determined passion. I could tell myself that although I lacked a meaningful, intense relationship, I had my work.

I call opposing counsel, a reasonable midfortyish associate with a minor speech impediment who must have been passed over for partner at his firm. I tell him that our papers were served incorrectly, that I would re-serve them by hand but they would arrive a day late. He interrupts me with a pleasant chuckle and says with a lisp that it is not a problem, that of course he wouldn't challenge service. I bet he hates his job as much as I do. If he liked it, he'd be all over this lapse like white on rice. Les would have a field day if the other side served a day late.

I send Les an e-mail message, one brief sentence: "Opposing counsel says they're fine with receiving papers by hand today." That will show him. I can be as curt and surly as the next guy.

Around one-thirty, after I have printed a new set of papers and turned them over to our courier for delivery, Hillary comes to my office and asks if I have lunch plans.

"No plans. You want to go?"

"Yeah. Can we go somewhere nice? Get a good meal? Steak or Italian?"

I smile and nod, retrieving my purse from under my desk. Hillary could eat a big lunch every day, but I get too sleepy in the afternoon. Once, after ordering a hot open-face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and green beans, I actually took the subway home for an afternoon nap. I returned to six voice-mail messages, including a ranting one from Les. That had been my last nap, unless you count the times I turn my chair to the window and balance a paper in my lap. The technique is foolproof—if someone barges in, it just looks as if you're reading. I sling my purse over my shoulder as

Kenny, our internal messenger from the mailroom, peeks around my half-open door.

"Hey, Kenny, come on in."

"Ra-chelle." He says my name in a French accent. "These are for you." He smirks as he produces a glass vase filled with red roses. A lot of roses. More than a dozen. More like two dozen, although I don't count. Yet.

"Holy shit!" Hillary's eyes are wide. I can tell that it takes tremendous effort for her not to grab the card.

"Where should I put em?" Kenny asks.

I clear a spot on my desk and point. "Here's fine."

Kenny shakes his wrists, exaggerating the weight of the