A shiver runs through me as I step out of the elevator and into the open foyer of the Law Firm of Marks, Sanchez & Reed. It’s not just because the air conditioning is on full blast to combat the dry August heat. Nor is it only because it's working so well that theair inside now feels chilly. It’s also— and mostly— due to a mixture of excitement and fear that is coursing through my veins.

And horniness. There’s definitely a little horniness mixed in there with everything else that's coursing its way through me. You'd be horny too, if you were me.

“Welcome, Ms. St. Clair,” the receptionist says, standing up and coming over to greet me.

He’s every bit of a proverbial tall, dark and handsome hotty but his perfect hair and impeccable fashion taste— he’s wearing a bespoke suit and tie that put my carefully chosen skirt suit to shame— signal that he’s gay, damn it.

“I’m Claude,” he says, in what I swear is a slight French accent, “and I’ll show you to your temporary office.”

“Nice to meet you.”
 

I shake his hand and begin to follow him. As we pass the receptionist desk I notice a framed picture of another man kissing Claude on the cheek. I’m happy for him but sad for me that my suspicions are confirmed.

It’s not like you could sleep with the receptionist at your brand new job, I think, chiding myself.

I’m on a mission. I need to have sex.

But not with anyone at work. I’m not that stupid.

“Did you say temporary office?” I ask Claude, willing myself back to reality.

“Yes,” he says, leading me down the spiral staircase. “It’s right this way.”

“What happened to…”

I trail off momentarily. I had wanted to say “my office,” but that sounds presumptuous.

“…the permanent office?” I finish.

When I’d interviewed here, one of the firm’s named partners, Cameron Sanchez, had showed me an office he said would be mine if I ended up getting the job. It was a large office with an impressive view of the Sandia Mountains and I’d been eagerly awaiting the chance to decorate it and make it my own.

“You do have an office but that wing is in the process of expansion,” Claude says.

“Expansion?”

Am I getting an even bigger office?

“Under construction,” he says, with an awkward shrug.

It’s obvious that Claude is just as confused as I am. I decide to stop bugging him. The poor guy was clearly only assigned to give me the bad news and show me to my “temporary office” and here I am badgering him with questions.

As we head down to the next floor it also becomes obvious that I’ve been temporarily housed with the paralegals in a cubicle area of a large shared space in the middle of the floor.

“Here’s your temporary office,” Claude says, and hightails it back upstairs. “Sandy will help you get set up.”

I wish I could call out after him that it’s not nice to pretend a cubicle is an office and then run away once the truth comes out. But he is so damn cute that I’ll let that one slide.

A tall blonde woman with frizzy hair says, “Hi, I’m Sandy. Lead Paralegal. Or 'paralegal extraordinaire,' whichever one you prefer."

She winks at me and then adds, "Welcome to ‘Cubicle Hell,’ as it’s known around here.”

“Ha.”

I half- smile at her, not sure what to say to that that would sound appreciative of her humor yet not insulting to the firm. I finally remember to introduce myself.

“Madilyn St. Clair,” I tell her, shaking her hand warmly, although she doesn’t return my effort very enthusiastically.

“You’ll just work here until your wing is ready,” she says.

“And how long will that be?” I ask her.

She shrugs.

“No tellin’.”

We’re in the middle of an area bordering what looks to be a somewhat busy intersection for firm traffic. People pass us by and look at me with curiosity.

One of the passersby is an overweight guy in a dumpy looking suit who sneers at me and says, “Good luck moving in before Christmas. And welcome to Marks, Sanchez & Reed, where the newest associates are obviously the least priority.”

“Don’t pay Steven any mind,” Sandy says, rolling her eyes. “He’s a senior associate who’s not going to make partner. He’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

She walks away without saying goodbye or telling me what I’m supposed to do now. I sit down on the pathetic excuse of a computer chair and try not to look as dejected as I feel.

Today is supposed to be my fresh start. My bright new beginning.

I’ve dumped the ex, started a new job and vowed to live a more fulfilling and exciting life. Which includes having sex for the first time ever.

I try to turn on the computer but it won’t start up no matter how many times I make the attempt. Slumping down into the uncomfortable computer chair, I realize it doesn't matter. Because I had been embarrassed, I was trying to ignore the people walking past me but by now it's become clear that no one else even seems to know or care that I exist.

The first day of my new job is supposed to be scary and exciting, but as I sit and stare at the obviously defunct computer, it dawns on me that I had no reason to shiver when I first arrived at the office. Nothing noteworthy is happening today.

I can’t believe that just a few minutes ago I arrived for my first day as an associate lawyer, bright- eyed, bushy- tailed, ready to learn and eager to please, only to find out that there’s literally no room for me. I suppose I should have expected this.

I’ve heard rumors about associate life. Every law student does. When you’re a clerk, still in law school but working for the firm over the summer, the partners wine and dine you, anxious for your commitment to work for them if you’re lucky enough to get a permanent offer.

I’d spent my summer clerkship at a different firm— almost, but not quite as, reputable as Marks. The first law firm had made me an offer to be a permanent associate after graduation, but I worked my ass off during my third year of law school and I’d gotten my GPA up to Marks caliber.

Even though I’d achieved my goal of getting an associate offer at the best firm in Albuquerque, now I’m wondering if I’d only won some kind of booby prize. I'm already finding out just how right the rumors are: The lack of respect sure seems to take a nose dive for those moving from the summer clerk level to the new associate level.

Someone walks by and dumps a bunch of files on my desk and then says, “Oh, you’re not the new assistant?”

I look up to see an older woman in horn-rimmed glasses with her hair pulled up into a bun. I blink and realize I recognize her from my interview. It’s Gloria O’Malley, one of the equity partners.

I stand up, flattered that she’s talking to me.

“Ms. O’Malley, I’m the new associate lawyer—”

“Oh, I was looking for the new assistant,” she says, looking down her nose at me, but just even doing that, because her eyes are shifting around the entire room. “I wonder where she is. I think her name is Melinda, which causes some confusion. Maybe one of you can go by something else during the work day, so that can be cleared up. But anyway, when she gets here, ask her to start sorting these files alphabetically, will you?”

She walks off in the same direction that Sandy had, leaving me to stare in disbelief at the mountain of files discarded on my desk.

Wow.

So, this is how it works now. Not only am I supposed to give messages to legal assistants but I'm also apparently supposed to change my name so that law partners don't get me confused with their legal assistants who have similar names.

I guess this is my introduction to life as a law firm associate. And apparently, I have a lot to learn— even if it’s how to do nothing and be ignored all morning.