Pretending To Hope

I loved visiting my dad’s office. Eons ago, I would sometimes accompany my father after school so he could finish up and we could go home for lunch together.

Those were the days! Pretend never got better than those two hours a week. Such day-dreams; such air-castles.

I loved sitting in his swiveling chair, behind his big desk, propped up on my legs to appear taller. I would write on the official notepad, make some scribbles. Make up words. Numbers and sums. And pretend I had just signed a very important deal with a very important client.

Who, by the way, loved my business acumen. I had no match! And I, a girl, had successfully conquered the male-dominated domain of business *insert evil laughter*.

Those days are long gone. Have fluttered away on the wings of time. Mere wisps of memory, trying to morph into something solid through words. Sigh.

Currently, I do have a desk. Words, numbers, scribbles. Swivelly chair. And there is hope that it would get better. Whether I have done anything worthwhile , I’m still trying to decide. I hope I am.

Hope. That same old fickle friend of mine. It’s nice to be able to see him once in a while.

Meanwhile, pretend doesn’t get better than this.

Such day-dreams; such air-castles.

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