It’s been another long day at the office. I’m starting to think this isn’t for me. Have you ever wanted something so badly, but never really slowed down to ask yourself why? I like my job, but I can already feel that my passion for the news is going to be squashed at this job, instead of being allowed to flourish.

Even though it’s only my second day, I’m starting to think that maybe I should start reevaluating things

I’ve already reevaluated my situation with Drew, decided to go for the fling thing. The memory of his lips dances on my mouth. I push him out of my head. For all I know, he’s already gone.

Going over last night’s events in my head is going to do me no good if I’m just going to allow myself to have a fling. A fling implies that feelings aren’t to be involved. Just bodies. It’s just sex. There’s nothing going on between my ears and nothing going on in my heart toward Drew Anderson. Nothing.

So I need to stop thinking about his scent. His strength. Everything I know about him. I need to put it away, tuck it away, deep down, and maybe I can reminisce about it when I’m older and thinking about when I was a younger woman and had this random fling with a billionaire real estate guy.

It’s not for me to think about now. It’s for the girls in the heels, the girls in the tight dresses, the girls who want to be on the arm of a rich guy. It’s not me.

I just need to keep telling myself that. I hope I’ll start to believe it soon.

I slip my key into the lock on my door. I’m looking forward to just taking my heels off and putting my feet on a pillow and drifting off in the early-evening sun streaming through my window. Maybe I’ll check out the leak in my sink and make sure I don’t need Drew to come over and take a look at it.

After all, he is still my super, and there’s no feelings involved in routine apartment maintenance. It’s all mechanical

As I’m about to enter my apartment, I hear three sets of footsteps coming up the stairs slowly. There are only four units on my floor, and I know all of my neighbors personally, and I wonder if it’s those investors again.

Mrs. Martinez, the sweet older lady who always makes the floor smell like garlic and onions and whose granddaughter is about my age, opens her door and shuffles out into the hallway.

“Hello, Molly. How is the evening treating you?”

“It’s pretty good. I’m just getting home from work.”

“Good day at the office? That’s good, sweetheart.”

I don’t want to tell her the truth, that the job is hard and I’m having second thoughts about my chosen career path. That I thought I’d love sitting in a cubicle doing grunt work because I know it will lead to something better. The truth is, even though I do know it will lead to something better, I’m not so sure I want what it’s leading to. And even though I love my boss and coworkers, I’m not so excited about working at a paper that’s gravitating more and more toward being a throw-away gossip blog.

Look at Mrs. Martinez, for instance. She moved here from Puerto Rico in the 1960s, and she was a homemaker for most of her life. When her husband passed away, she decided to go to college, and then graduate school, and became a Kindergarten teacher. She’s currently a substitute teacher a few days a week at the very same school she sent her children to.

I find that much more interesting than reading about Clarissa and her ilk, the adult kids of the wealthy who treat Manhattan like a playground.

The footsteps making their way up the stairs stop, and there are some muffled voices and the scuffle of feet before the footsteps start again, getting quieter as they continue. I tip-toe over to the banister of the landing and peer down between the railings. It’s the suit guys again.

I shift my purse onto my shoulder and walk over to Mrs. Martinez.

“What do you think those guys are doing in the building, Mrs. M?”

“Oh, you don’t know? Come inside, dear. Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

“I’d love that.” I smile and enter her apartment.

It’s a larger unit than mine - a two bedroom, and I take in the surroundings. A China cabinet boasts a collection of ornate, beautiful dishes, and she has a collection of ladybug dish towels hanging from the handle of the oven. She has a pot of red sauce cooking on the stovetop, and it’s making the apartment warm, but the late afternoon breeze coming in through the living room and the modest dining room are making the space feel like a big home.

“Here, put your bag down. I guess you haven’t seen those men around the building yet.”

“I saw them once. I’m afraid I already know why they’re here.”

She ambles over to the stove and scoops a little bit of sauce onto a plate and tears a piece of semolina bread off a large loaf.

I slip into a chair in the dining room and put my bag down on the table. It’s cluttered with bills and catalogs, and a stack of spelling exams.

“They make you grade the kids’ tests, even though you’re a sub?”

“No, I volunteer for it. I enjoy it. Plus, it gives me something to do. My granddaughter can’t get here as much as I’d like her to. She comes about once a week, and I need things to take up my time.” She sets the plate of red sauce and bread down in front of me, piping hot with steam rising off the plate. I inhale the sweet aroma of chopped garlic, tomatoes and extra virgin olive oil. “There’s only so much Wheel of Fortune and Golden Girls one old lady can watch.”

“Oh, you’re not old, Mrs. M.” I drag the bread through the sauce, blow on it, and pop into my mouth. It’s sweet and salty and just the right temperature.

“That’s great, Mrs. M.! It tastes just like the sauce my grandmother used to make.”

“Is she Italian?”

“No, actually. She’s from Alabama. Daughter of the American Revolution, or that’s what the folklore in my family says. My grandfather was from Sicily, and his mom, my great grandmother, taught my grandmother how to cook.”

“It’s so nice how the generations take care of each other. It’s a very special thing.” She gets up from the table and goes to the refrigerator, taking out a pitcher of iced tea. “You don’t really see that very much anymore. Everyone in New York seems to be from someplace else nowadays. But that’s okay. Everyone needs to plant roots down, and it’s a beautiful thing to be able to start a family somewhere else. That’s what I did.”

“And you think your grandkids will stay here in New York?”

“I think so. My Anna is thinking about going to Puerto Rico to visit her cousins for the summer, but she loves it here too much to not come back.”

She stirs the iced tea with a long wooden spoon and places it gently in the sink before reaching up into a cabinet to grab two glasses.

“It’s a shame about what they’re going to do to the building.”

She makes room on the table, moving the stacks of papers and bills, putting them into a cardboard box, and pours the iced tea into two glasses. The sun is setting and it’s the perfect evening, not very much unlike the ones I used to share with my own grandmother and parents before moving out to get my own place.

“It’s those men who are in the building. They represent some fancy real estate company. They want to buy the building and kick everyone out.” She shakes her head in disappointment and lays her hands down flat on the table.

“That happened to my family when I was younger. I hardly remember it. I guess I’m lucky.”

“They won’t kick us out right away, but I’ve heard that they are planning on converting the building to condominiums. They’ll probably offer buyouts to the tenants who stick around and don’t move right away, and the remaining tenants will have one hell of a headache when the construction starts.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them before.”

“We’ve had other guys here before looking at the building, but this is a new group of men. It’s not really that big of a deal. Especially to young people who don’t have roots where they live. Present company excluded.” She gets up and walks over to her window, pulling back the lace white curtains and peering down at the street below. “But I remember my kids being picked up for school by the school bus right down there on the street. The ice cream truck in the summer, and the cookouts on the terraces. The fabric of the community is going to change.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I know the owner of the building has turned down offers before. He’s never been interested in doing anything like that with the building. He likes having the old tenants who he knows.”

“Present company excluded?” I smile and take a sip of my tea. Even though I may be young, I’m from the neighborhood, and I can appreciate what Mrs. Martinez is going through.

“Anyway, it’s just a rumor. We get people coming through the building every few months. Big shot guys in suits, guys from the city. I hope the owner holds out, but he has to do what’s best for himself, too. It’s what we all have to do.”