Not quite four hours after she’d gone to bed, Sasha’s eyes flipped open exactly five minutes before her alarm was set to go off, as they did every morning. She stretched to her full length, pointing her toes and spreading her arms above her head, fingertips hitting the headboard. She sat, arched her back, rolled her neck, and switched off the still-silent alarm.
The genius of her loft-style condo was that her bedroom was just three steps up from the kitchen with its oil-rubbed bronze appliances (the new stainless, according to her realtor). She made the short walk to the kitchen and had an oversized mug of very hot, very strong black coffee in her hand before she’d fully awakened.
Sasha had learned quickly that grinding the beans, setting up the water, and putting the coffee maker on the timer the night before made for much easier mornings. She even set out the mug the night before, putting it right beside the machine on the recycled glass countertop (deemed the new granite by the same realtor).
She had briefly dated Joel Somebody or Other, a coffee purist who’d been appalled when he witnessed this routine. He had lectured her about the oils in the beans and the temperature of the water. At their next—and last—date, he’d presented her with a small French press and suggested she learn the art of crafting her coffee one perfect cup at a time.
She’d tossed the French press in a drawer, where it remained, still in its box. She’d tossed Joe back into Pittsburgh’s shallow dating waters, unwilling to indulge his coffee-related snobbery.
What she sacrificed in flavor by setting up the coffee at night was more than offset by the immediate delivery of caffeine that greeted her each morning.
She carried the coffee back into the bedroom, where she pulled on her running shoes. She’d also learned that sleeping in her workout clothes instead of proper pajamas made for easier mornings.
Then it was into the bathroom to wash her face, brush her teeth, and pull her hair back into a low ponytail. She headed out to the small foyer, where she pulled on the fleece jacket that hung by the door, jammed a baseball cap on her head, and shrugged into her backpack. She checked to make sure the door locked behind her and jogged down the stairs to the lobby.
Eight minutes after getting out of bed, Sasha burst out the door to the street and filled her lungs with the cold air. As she ran through Shadyside, up to Fifth Avenue, she felt her legs loosen and her stride lengthen.
Mondays through Saturdays she ran from her condo to her Krav Maga class. She’d taken the hand-to-hand combat classes since law school. Krav Maga kept her mentally sharp. Not to mention, she was almost 5’3” tall—as long as she was wearing three-inch heels—and a whopping ninety-seven pounds. That put her at a distinct size disadvantage against anyone other than third graders. Knowing how to shatter a kneecap gave her some comfort when she was walking to her car late at night or brushing off the advances of some drunk on the rooftop deck at Doc’s bar.
After the class, depending on where she’d left her car the night before, she either ran back home to get ready for work or ran straight to Prescott & Talbott’s offices and showered at the firm gym, where she kept a supply of business clothes.
Sundays she neither worked out nor worked. She slept until noon and then spent the afternoon at her parents’ house, staying for dinner with her brothers, their wives, and her assorted nieces and nephews.
By the time she showered, dressed, and stepped off the elevator into Prescott’s offices six days a week at eight a.m. sharp, takeout cup from the coffee shop in the lobby in her hand, Sasha was alert, loose, and ready for her day. No one asked if she’d spent her morning learning how to crush a windpipe with the blade of her forearm, disarm someone wielding a knife, or subdue an attacker using an arm triangle chokehold, and she never mentioned it.