Today, there is snow and mist outside her corporate aerie. Honora often stayed late to work on her novel, but the end of day rarely produced any words. She stood at the window and gazed across at the Sherry Netherland building with its gargoyles and green peaked roof and tower. A soft glow came from a window high in the roof. She used to imagine a writer scribbling there at a desk, or an artist at her canvas. But her coworker had assured her it was nothing so romantic – it was most likely a generator.
Behind the stunning Art Deco building, spread the backdrop of Central Park with its lacey bare trees. Ice skaters glided round and round the rink. Patches of pure white on the fields, the ice-covered pond. Soft blue dusk. The lamplights came on and filled the park with tiny dots of gold. I would call it beautiful, Honora thought.
Once in a great while, Honora’s jobs offered unexpected boons, such as this view from the 35th floor overlooking Central Park. A view that changed dramatically with the weather, the seasons. A view for which she was grateful.
After fighting the grip of the corporate world for so many years, she had finally given in. It came at a cost, as does everything. But it had provided structure and some degree of security. The biggest problem was the matter of time. There was simply less of it. And the artist’s life had been diminished. But what is life, she asked, if not a series of compromises. (Honey shot Nora a look of blame. “She didn’t use to think in platitudes.”)
At least she still had her notebooks, Honora thought. She no longer took classes or submitted pieces to contests and agents, but she still wrote. And perhaps one day . . .
Honora gave a parting glance at the gold and blue park, and at the writer’s candlelit garret window. Then she closed her patiently waiting notebook and gave her desk a once over before leaving for the day.
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