Bay Bridge

There are few things in life that give me such a sense of wonder as sitting on the top floor of LinkedIn, in my hexagonal cubby looking out at the Bay Bridge. The stark contrast of dark sky to flashing lights between shaft of gray. It fills me with such wonder that I often have to excuse myself to the Palace of Fine Arts on floor 17, turn of the auto-lights and sneak under the table to relieve myself of my exploding joy. It has to be that room, and not the Bay Bridge room just a few meters away, because in that room, the Bay Bridge, even more perfectly framed, would be looking at me in shame. Instead, I let the gritty political buildings in a soft blue glow wash over me as I finish my business.

I find myself here so infrequently. I've become complacent in life living in the suburbs of Sunnyvale, but when I'm on top of the world like I am here, I suddenly feel the overhwhelming urge to mingle with men in Armani suits, to wear sleek blue dresses and spread myself up against window in order to make headlines in the New York Times.

I long to call Aaron, who I know lives in the city to feel like this always. Who always wears button down shirts in space-suit woven fabrics, hair always coiffed in sinusoidal waves. Who longs for a petite woman in black, chiffon shirts, and the skinniest of skinny jeans. That last one always makes me pause. I put the phone down and continue with my work.

I want to be master of this city. I want people to look up from the steady stream of cars as they glide along the Bay Bridge and be consumed with the vision of me.