The reflection of her face on the glass window blended into the outside sky as it floated in its place high above New York City. She had rounded cheeks with a pair of lips in the center that spoke with their movements. Ursula Ong puckered, looked at the time, then rose up to walk over to the side of the office with the best view of the park. The luscious colors of the season made for a plush quilt that blanketed the city below. Sunrays coming from the East met her eyes and she cut short her glance.
When a woman like Ursula Ong suddenly finds herself at forty, she has to identify what is it in her world that fascinates. Celebrity culture intoxicates with its embellishments and distractions. And the plights of the masses entertain, as well. Yet, certain times events may occur that in precise truthfulness reveal the naked core, what it is all about. The answers to questions asked for years. A whole life can be condensed and explained in simple terms. When memories of a bygone era return as revelations they replenish the present, close circles and complete cycles.
The figure tilted her head back like dragonness. Last evening finally focused into retrospect as the Zulu spear and shield mounted on the office wall came into view. Walking across the cream carpet toward the lounge area Ursula Ong covered her mouth whispering to herself, "Oh, my God." She remembered being on all fours under her dining room table with the boy. The addictive thrill of subjugation so manifested. Toy Gan never said a word - he didn't need to and it was just as well for there clearly was no misunderstanding between the two. She could have had everything her way, precisely as she wished if only that annoying shrimp woman had not called and fucked up her hot and spicy dinner plans. Hmmm. There will be other opportunities to continue what was interrupted, Ursula Ong defiantly calculated.
Back at her dining table-size desk that shined like a pine forest thanks to Sally she went through her messages from yesterday. Moving the mouse arrow to scroll down, she began prioritizing her day. Click Delete, Click Delete. Open. Skimming. Delete. Click Delete. Messages from parents and family members were saved naturally. Mail from schoolmates and social friends also saved, except the ones she detested. Click Delete.
Sally peeked her head in from outside. "More flowers for you, Ms. Ong. A beautiful African orchid plant from Katie and Matt and yellow roses from the Mayor's office." She withdrew when Ursula Ong waved her away, her signal to the secretary to deal with the coming onslaught herself.
Next a note from Sheila, her best friend. Plans for the evening were confirmed for eight at the Wellesley Club. Sheila told her weeks prior to not expect anything to match the lavish birthday celebrations of the past, adding that there was nothing to celebrate when one finally hits the big 4 0. She once mentioned to Ursula Ong life begins in the teens, followed by self- discovery and struggle in the twenties, consolidation in the thirties and finally unraveling in the forties. And only if you are still around, just maybe it all begins again in the fifties. So, according to Sheila for the last ten years, her age was a perpetual twenty-nine. No one tried to insist otherwise lest he or she insisted on self-infliction.
Sheila knew a lot of people and some of them were very powerful. They apparently loved being near her. Ursula Ong could never really figure out how Sheila had these connections, but she accepted them as part of her and understood that her own status rated high on Sheila's list. The celebrity and VIP friends did not impress Ursula Ong, anyhow; too many got lucky and their free ride was a waste. Digressing, Ursula Ong pondered the tide of humanity and how it makes love to society's billboards. Whatever supports the country in today's world. She leaned a little massaging her back into the leather cushion.
More revelations would follow her day she knew. Images will come back to make their appearance as if their civil duty. The life of Ursula Ong played for the interested public, and in the front row, herself. The curtain opens to a birth somewhere in America. Her painful adolescence re-lived. Wellesley College and Boston. Seeing the world. Meeting Roberto. The marriage. The divorce. The settlement. Meeting Mario Martini the following year. The marriage. The divorce. The settlement. Then Ursula Ong's big break. The offer of the weekend anchor position at INN. Before long she was a household name. Life made a swish and took off.
An afterthought floated into her head as she stared into her homepage. Screensaver took over. A herd of eland antelope galloping across the alluvial plains. What will be my legacy to mankind? Her visceral answer came as an enormous billboard intruding above disinterested motorists speeding along the West Side Highway and plastered on it the same publicity photo of herself and Steve Whitman cuddling at the newsdesk. Hands touching ever so delicately with phony smiles for the camera crew. Her dress matched his hair and his tie matched her skin. It worked for America so she put up with it, and lived off of it.
The Monday morning turned out to be bearable for Ursula Ong despite the breakdown of Sally's attempts to maintain the flow of gifts and visitors in a manageable way. By midday flower arrangements overflowed out of the conference room making it appear as if it was a funeral parlor. The white calla lilies blended with the red roses and yellow tulips and their fragrant scents filled the fortieth floor hallways. Outside the building it was October, but at this corner of INN it looked like it was Easter.
