I’m plodding down the sidewalk on a dreary afternoon, venturing into the teeming wild of Midtown for a lunch (in my lawyer days we called them “meetings” where lunch happened to be served - now they’re “lunches” where some business eventually gets discussed). Weaving through herds of tourists waving maps and hot dog carts filling the streets with pungent steam, I reach the address jotted in my notebook, a nondescript steel tower wedged in between a hotel and a bank.

I glance inside the lobby and see huge gold letters plastered above an elevator bank. Suddenly I’m flashing back 4 or 5 years, watching myself stride through these same revolving doors in my boxy interview suit with sturdy heels, a leather folder filled with resumes and law school transcripts clutched in my sweaty palms. Shoulders back, head high - remember to watch your posture, it’s crucial when making a good first impression. It was law firm callback season, and I was arriving for the requisite three-and-a-half hours of interviews to determine whether this firm would extend me the almighty key to its marble doors.

Startled by the memory’s intensity, I step into the palatial lobby that looks and smells the way all highrise lobbies do, floor buffing chemicals and hints of cologne churned by overcirculated air. Heading for the security desk, I plant myself next to one of the large potted trees that always “give color” to lobbies and wait for my lunch date.

At exactly 12:30 the elevators open and a stream of lawyers files out. Ahh, 12:30, I remember it well, the blessed hour when you stopped billing for around thirty minutes and ventured to that day’s selection of nearby food courts or sandwich shops, standing in line with other highrise escapees for an $11 panini or $14 soft-shelled crab on a brioche with chipotle mayo. Lunch was the highlight of the day; money was no object.

The groups of associates walk past, fingering Blackberries bulging from pants pockets, clutching expensive leather purses under their arms. Wait, isn’t that me? Aren’t I one of them? Reality shifts, and I forget what I’ve done, the past 8 months vanish. I’m an associate here - or might have been, had I taken their summer offer. It’s 12:30 and I’m waiting in the lobby for my lunch group to arrive. What was and could have been my life merges - is that where I’m supposed to be? Don’t I belong with them, chatting about last night’s date, The Apprentice and Lindsay Lohan on the way to the escalator? Did the past 8 months really happen at all?

“Uh, Melissa?”

My lunch date’s standing in front of me wearing a quizzical expression and I realize I’m gazing into nowhere, looking mildly deranged.

“Hey! Sorry, I was just, uh, remembering something I forgot to do. Or didn’t forget. Or something.”