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Overworked Part I

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet Jensen had grown used to over the years. The hum of the heater kicked on beneath the floorboards, steady and familiar. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and rhythmic, like fingertips drumming lightly on a desk.

He was in his home office, as usual, half a dozen windows open on the desktop screen. The latest quarterly reports were open beside a partially written email, something about projections and subsidiary adjustments. He rubbed at his temple, squinting at the numbers that had started to blur.

He hadn’t been feeling great all day. A dull ache had settled in his chest hours earlier, but he’d chalked it up to poor sleep or maybe the half-soggy bagel he’d eaten at his desk. Stress, most likely. It always was.

He reached for his coffee, now lukewarm, and stood to stretch, rolling his shoulders and glancing out the window. Manhattan blurred under the curtain of rain. He’d always loved this view. So much of his life had happened here, in this city, this house.

He thought of Shea, probably halfway through a packed schedule. He hoped she was wearing a coat. Sharp, brilliant Shea with her mother’s fire and his stubbornness. He smiled faintly. His daughter could be the first woman president, he thought dimly. Or whatever she wants. She could run the world, but she never dressed for the weather.

The ache in his chest sharpened suddenly, then pressed harder. His hand went to his sternum as a strange heat crawled up his neck and down his arms. It stole his breath. He staggered backward, one hand catching the bookshelf behind him. A photo frame clattered to the floor - an old one, the edges worn from years of being dusted and put back.

It was a picture of Bianca.

She was laughing, frozen mid-smile, hair falling over one eye. He sank to the floor slowly, unable to keep standing. His legs felt waterlogged, useless.

Bianca.
His first love. His greatest loss.