Ongoing conversations

On the walk to work I have a conversation with my mother. It's too early to answer her, but, as always, even harder to make her stop.
"How's the new job going?" she chirps, or more accurately caws.
"It's fine," I say, voice cracking right at the stroke of 7:30 a.m.
"What exactly are you doing?"
"Dry stuff, not very exciting."
"Well, do you like it?"
"It's OK. Don't understand much yet."
"What? You don't like it?"
"I said it's fine..." the bag swung around my body is getting heavier.
"You know, that's life sweetie. You better get used to it -"
"Yeah, yeah...yes. I know." I can feel the sun growing warmer.
"- Everyone has to do it. It'll get better. I know how much you like being busy and you'll feel better about yourself once you start making money -"
The birds are getting louder. "Alright mom...I understand. Enough."
"- Because no one makes a living writing right off the bat. You still need to make money to support the life your father and I have given you -"
"Yes, and it's not right if it's not your way." My teeth are grinding.
"- It's a slap in our faces when you do something like waitress to write after all we've given you with education and opportunities -"
My head is aching. "Please don't do this right before I walk in..."
"- And I know you'll like it once you see the benefits. Everyone works and nobody likes it. That's life -"
"Guess it is," I say out loud to no one in particular.

I walk into the building with my mother's words chasing after me. The hallway is grey and there is a barely audible hum from the fluorescent lights that flicker above. I arrive at my desk and go through the normal ritual. Bag off. Coat off. Turn computer on. Sip of coffee. Sit down. Change shoes. Sip of coffee. Stare at screen. Coffee. I reach into my bag to take out a pen.

"Damnit," I silently curse. Left my phone at home.