When I first became a lawyer, I loved the extreme detail of it. How language mattered. The way it required my full attention and how, unlike my family, it was explicit in its meaning. I'd found the demanding job that needed me as much as I needed it. It was a dream come true. The family I never had.

With time, you'd think too much of a good thing could only get better. But in my case it's become suffocating. It's devoured all other parts of my life. I couldn't have said this yesterday. I couldn't have admitted it, or maybe it was not yet true yesterday.

I mouth the word "coffee" to Jenny, the a.s.sistant. I know what you're thinking-fetch your own coffee, lady. How s.e.xist to expect young and spry Jenny to get coffee. It's the other way around, of course; Jenny gets coffee only for men. In law school, I didn't imagine this would be one of my more difficult precedent-setting arguments. Jenny's paid to be a floater. That means seamlessly filling the gaps. Floating from one task to the next without interrupting the flow of work and ideas. Jenny pretends she doesn't see me. Instead of aiming to be helpful and largely invisible, she pretends I am invisible. I wait until we make eye contact. Then I make a pouring motion. Still, I get the freeze. Jenny looks away from me quickly and begins removing imaginary lint from her skirt. I wait. I pounce again. I mouth the word "coffee," then make a pouring motion, followed by a sipping, oops, too-hot-don't-sip-too-fast motion.

"Jen-," I start to say.

"Jenny! Can you stop pretending you don't see Emily and get the G.o.dd.a.m.n coffee, so she can quit it with the pantomime routine?" Donald says. "For the life of me I'll never understand how the h.e.l.l being paid to pour coffee landed on par with abuse."

Donald is a man who does not wait for life, and does not waste time on pleasantries. Donald is a doer. He gets s.h.i.t done. It must be so satisfying to be Donald.

I can already predict what form the ugly retaliation will take: scalding hot, instant decaf, with nondairy creamer? I miss my coffee machine. I miss my home. I wish it were yesterday instead of today. Too often, that is my wish.

Exit Here RIGHT AFTER THE MEETING, Sam says: "Rhodes, let's meet in my office."

"Okay, coach," I say.

He doesn't close the door. He leans against his desk.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"What happened?" Sam asks.

I'm imagining what sort of excuse might appease him-or me-in this situation.

I could tell him the truth, but even the truth doesn't quite get me off the hook. I should have called him as soon as my mother fell asleep. I should have called and said, "More tin-foil swans, please."

"You need to talk to me," Sam says. He reaches for my hand and lifts it up to match the palm of my hand against the palm of his hand. Our fingers are stretched out. His hand dwarfs mine. I imagine future generations using this position as a method to determine who might make a suitable mate for life. It's as good a measure as any.

"You know what I was thinking when I was sitting in that meeting?" I say.

"Let me guess. 'Jenny, where the h.e.l.l's my coffee?'" Sam says.

"Well, that, too. But I was wondering when I decided it was okay for this job to consume my life," I say. "How did work become my central focus? Not my central focus. It's my only focus. I have nothing else."

"That's what happens when you're good at something. You want to spend all of your time doing it," Sam says. "But you've been here for sixty-three days in a row; maybe you just need a break."

He's right. I am good at my job, and being good at something is meaningful. But the more time I spend perfecting what I'm already good at, the less time I spend on things that I'm not good at. You see where this is headed, don't you? A lopsided life. I do need a break.

"We both know if I take that break-I'm the girl who needed a break. It's one more reason for me not to make partner. Partners don't need breaks. I'm living under the constant threat of not making partner. It used to seem kind of exciting and elusive. Like hunting. Now it just makes me feel bad," I say. "I'm thirty years old. My mother just told me she has cancer. Why am I spending all of my time here?"

"Cancer? Oh, Emily. I'm sorry," Sam says. "How is she coping?"

"It's hard to describe," I say. I've never been able to describe her accurately and now is no different.

"I really am sorry. Please let me know if there's any way I can help," Sam says.

"Thanks," I say.

"About you and me, Em," Sam says. "This morning, I pretty much laid it all out there-on the phone. The woman who has never been tardy or sick in four years chooses today as the day not to show up. Doesn't even call. If you were me, what would you make of that?" Sam asks.

"Everything is different today," I say. I want to claim some newfound ability to see things more clearly. But it's not true. I just see things differently.

He drops my hand. Not sure why he held it, just to let it go. A subliminal reinforcement of what I'm doing to him? Mano a mano. Very cagey, amigo. His directness is startling and frightening and exciting. It's also completely foreign to me.

I stare at him.

"The thing that's always concerned me about you is that you live your life with one foot out the door. It's unsettling," Sam says. "Worse than that, it's familiar. It reminds me of Susanna."

Okay, that is officially the most hurtful thing he's ever said to me. I think I might cry because it also happens to be true. I do live with one foot out the door. But if I cry, he wins, right? I'm not sure what he wins exactly. The satisfaction of articulating my dysfunction better than I can? All I know is I can't lose this one. Maybe I really am a lawyer at heart. Why is winning even part of this exchange?

"That's really unnecessary and really unfair," I say. "I've made solid decisions in my life so I don't have an ex-spouse to compare you to."

"You're right. No ex-spouse for you," Sam says, smiling.

"Why are you smiling?" I say.

"A spouse, or even an ex-spouse, would have required you to have made a commitment to someone," Sam says. "That's not an area of strength for you, is it?"

He takes a deep breath and walks away from me, toward the window.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean for this conversation to head in this direction. Emily, I've thought for a long time that we were going to end up together, so I didn't really care so much about the when of it. Now, though, the long road is starting to seem like the infinite road."

"You don't get to pin this on me," I say. "It's really convenient. But do you know how many times we've canceled plans because of this place?" I say. "You're no more ready to have a relationship than I am."

"You're completely wrong about that," Sam says. "We're almost finished with this project. Let's go skiing. Maybe Vermont or Lake Placid?"

Negotiating 101. He's calling my bluff.

"So we can live our life on vacation a few weeks each year?" I say.

The more I stand there, the more resentful I become. I hate it that I never leave my office when it's light out. I hate it that I spend my weekends stressing about what will be sitting on my desk come Monday. I hate that the lines have become so blurry that I don't know if I'm a workaholic, or if I'm using this job as an excuse to spend time with Sam or as an excuse to avoid spending time with Sam away from work.

"You're quitting your job, aren't you?" Sam asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Grow up!" Sam says, slamming the door. For privacy? Too late for that. Anyone not watching us before is watching now that the door has been slammed. "That's not how you quit a job!"

"It's my job, I'll quit how ever I want to quit," I say. If I'd thrown in a "nah-nah-nah," the regression would be complete.

He stares at me for a few seconds. It seems like days. I feel like collapsing and crying. Just getting it all out.

"Emily, you're supposed to quit the s.h.i.tty things in your life, not the good things," Sam says, walking toward me.

He's right about that. All those years in school and no one ever mentioned practical life and how to manage it. The topic never even came up. That's beyond an oversight. It's blasphemous. What do I need to know about statistics and Latin when I don't even know the basics about how to interact with other people?

I know what I'm doing, and I still can't stop. I've studied my mother's communication style my whole life. I feel stuck with it. I could see the disbelief on Sam's face when I was talking to him. He was incredulous and angry. I never learned how to be either one. His responses are appropriate. It's foreign and terrifying and endearing.

His arms are around me. I stand still, absorbing the closeness for a few seconds so I can refer to it later when I start regretting my next move. I step away from him, open the door, and race down the hall. Tears well up in my eyes, and I wait until I'm in the elevator before I start crying.

I push the b.u.t.ton for the lobby, and then start sobbing. A tissue is being waved over my shoulder. So much for being alone.

"Thanks, Donald," I say.

Falling in Love LOST PEOPLE ARE DIFFERENT. They will drive around in the same circle over and over rather than try a new path. Their fear of getting more lost paralyzes them into staying lost in the area that's just become familiar. It supersedes their ability to chart a new course. They circle and backtrack and stay comfortably lost because it's less scary than seeing something different than what's presently in front of them.

The weekend I fell for Sam happened over a year ago. He was still married. We were all working at the same firm-me, Sam, and Susanna. They invited me to their house in East Hampton for the weekend. Sam had a broken ankle. Men over thirty-five have a way of kidding themselves and thinking it's a good idea to play pick-up basketball with men under the age of thirty-five.

Susanna and I walked from Lee Street, over to Lily Pond Lane, and down to Main Beach. We left Sam and his ankle behind. It was cold and sunny. The air seemed so clean. It's the kind of day that seems like nothing can go wrong.

"We're getting divorced," Susanna said.

"Good one," I said.

"No, really. We are," Susanna said.

"You seem like you're...together," I said.

"Oh, I haven't told him yet!" Susanna said.

"Then why are you telling me?" I asked.

"I had to tell someone," Susanna said.

"Someone?" I said.

"I'm dreading it. He's a really good guy," she said.

"Work things out," I said.

It's shocking, in hindsight, that I felt so free to give advice I could never implement myself.

"It's too late. I'm moving to Chicago," Susanna said.

"Who's in Chicago?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Maybe no one was in Chicago. Maybe Chicago was her clean slate. What am I saying? Brutal winters. Chicago can only mean someone else.

I was staying in their first-floor guest room. I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear a car starting. Then a loud thud and some swearing. I walked into the living room.

"Ouch! Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Sam said; as he bent to lift some firewood that he dropped, he tripped over the track of the sliding-gla.s.s door. More firewood fell, and a log landed on his bad ankle, knocking him to the floor.

It was painful to watch. So I turned away.

"Hey, are you going to be okay?" I said, still not looking.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Sam said. "You can look. Did I wake you? Of course I woke you. Sorry. I thought maybe you'd left with Susanna."

"Susanna left?" I asked, turning toward Sam.

"Yes," Sam said, "she left."

We crawled around on the floor together, picking up firewood. When we were finished, still on our hands and knees, his face was close to mine. In that moment, he seemed like he'd be an easy person to be married to. But what do I know?

"Thanks," he said.

"Sure," I said.

"I mean thanks for not asking questions about why one of your hosts left at midnight," Sam said.

I keep expecting to hear her car in the driveway. She won't be on the road five minutes before she realizes what a mistake she's made, and who she has given up.

I went back to the guest room and stared at the ceiling and eventually fell asleep.

At two A.M. I heard some cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen. I brushed my teeth and went out to take a look.

"Can I help with something?" I asked.

"I'm making waffles. Want some?" Sam said.

"Sure," I said.

"Did you know she was moving to Chicago?" Sam said.

"I really like waffles," I said. "Where do you get a heart-shaped waffle iron?"

"Wedding gift," Sam said.

I look at the floor. "Oh," I said. "She's making a mistake."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Sam said. "But thanks."

"My grandmother used to have a maple tree in her backyard," I said. "About two feet from the ground there was a spout sticking out of the tree, and we'd leave a cup under the spout overnight and collect the maple sap the next day. I remember reading that one tree can produce forty to eighty gallons of sap a year."

Are you starting to understand why I work sixty hours a week and don't have an active romantic life?

"I'm sorry. I know what you're thinking."

"What was I thinking?" Sam says.

"For the love of G.o.d, lady, let me eat my waffles in peace," I said.

"No. I was thinking I was glad I invited my aunt to the wedding," Sam said. "I think she gave us the waffle maker."

I washed the dishes. Sam dried them. It was three-thirty in the morning, and that was the most fun I'd had in a long time.

"I should get to bed," Sam said. "Rest this ankle."