Allison’s footsteps were soft on the concrete stairs as she and Peter descended toward the bar’s front door. She shivered, but whether it was from the nerves or the cold, she couldn’t tell. She fiddled with her wedding ring. Peter noticed and squeezed her hand, giving her a loving look. 

The stoop flooded with light, and there was a flurry of activity as the couple was practically yanked inside. Coats were hung. Hands were shaken. Names were yelled. Allison’s co-workers welcomed her into a circle of conversation. They launched into talk of holiday plans and end-of-year business. 

“Courts are closed for the holiday, so at least we can get a break!” ... “Did you get your billable hour bonus?” ... “The kids and I are going skiing for New Year’s Eve.” 

Allison beamed at Peter as she watched him get swept into a debate about the best movies of the year. She reveled in the sense of happiness that permeated the room, as the stress of work dissipated. 

But over the roar of conversation and laughter, Allison heard a soft melody. The sound of a piano, one note at a time, drifted toward her from the center of the room. The voices around her faded as Allison lost herself in the music’s quiet anticipation. Allison scanned the room, and her eyes fell on the source of the sound: 

The bar. 

Its quiet refrain of swirling ice and clinking glasses called to her. Each note tugged on her as if to say, “Come closer. Sing with me.”   

Twenty-six days. Allison hadn’t had a drink in 26 days. She thought quitting would be easy. She thought it would be an interesting experiment. In reality, alcohol had etched grooves inside her, and going sober caused the turntables in Allison’s mind to spin and spin and spin and spin, its melody her constant companion. 

This was Allison’s fifth holiday party with the firm. At this point, she was a professional. She knew when to be sweet and when to be funny. She knew when to talk up her accomplishments and when to appear more humble. She knew who her friends were and who to avoid. But the music—the music was new. It distracted her. 

She could feel herself answering her co-workers’ questions, but her brain was on autopilot. She worried she was acting distant and that her co-workers noticed. She felt their eyes boring into her, waiting for her wit to show itself. But Allison’s gaze was locked onto the drinks in everyone’s hands, willing herself not to give in to the song. 

A loud voice snapped her focus back to reality. 

“Allison! Peter!” The sea of people parted as Michael, her managing partner, approached them with a warm smile. “I’m so glad you’re here!” He meant it. Michael was one of the highlights of Allison’s job. He was funny, kind and brilliant. He believed in her, and she took pride in working for him. 

“Let me get your drinks!” 

Allison’s stomach dropped. Suddenly, Michael’s usually warm presence filled her with dread. She wanted to cry. She wanted to leave. She couldn’t do this. 

“I’ll grab them,” Peter interjected. Allison shot him a grateful smile, and he inched out of the crowd. Peter ventured toward the bar, toward Allison’s music. Allison stared at the back of his head, willing him to hear her thoughts. 

Please remember. Just a Diet Coke. Don’t make me say it out loud. 

He remembered. Peter walked over with an old-fashioned for him and a soda for her. Allison’s heart raced at the sight of her Diet Coke in a tall glass. It felt monstrous compared to Peter’s rocks glass. It felt bulky compared to the tall-stemmed wine glasses she saw throughout the party. It felt too big for her hand. 

The music grew increasingly desperate. A symphony roared to life in Allison’s ears. Brass blared from the beer. Woodwinds whistled from the wine. Strings sang from the spirits. She caught Peter’s eyes, pleading. 

Please make it stop. Please turn down the volume in my head. 

He placed his hand on her back, and she felt loved. But the noise persisted. She needed earplugs. She needed headphones. She needed Advil. Xanax. Gin. Something. 

No. 

Michael looked at her with a glint in his eye. “Allison, listen, I know we’re not supposed to talk shop at these parties, but great work on the Davenport matter.” 

“I learned from the best,” she said. Allison stared at his glass of red wine, her eyes darting between his drink and hers, the difference screaming at her. 

Is it screaming at him, too? 

“Be honest, what do you think we can do better as a firm?” 

What if he noticed my tall glass? “To be frank, I think you need more women partners.” 

“I agree. Do you want that to be you someday?” 

What if he thinks I’m not a team player? “I intend for it to be me someday.” 

“I can’t think of anyone better.” 

What if he thinks I’m a loser? 

Percussion smothered the symphony. Allison couldn’t ignore it anymore. The beat demanded her attention. The rhythm was pulsing all around her. It sounded from the bartender's hands. It rang from the dregs at the bottom of glasses. It banged from her co-workers’ breath. 

“Excuse me,” she whispered. Allison handed her soda to Peter and walked shakily through the bar, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. She darted into the restroom and shrank down toward the cold tile. She felt the beat pounding against her, nothing but the bathroom door separating her from the bar’s siren song. Allison put her head in her hands. 

“Rough night?” 

Allison whipped her head up. Regina, a senior partner, was looking at her in the reflection of the mirror. Allison was surprised to see her. Regina never seemed to care much for socializing. She was cold, intimidating and incredible at her job. Allison would have preferred to give her a better impression than being found curled up on the bathroom floor. 

“Too much to drink?” 

“No,” Allison said through gritted teeth. 

“Too little?” 

Allison was silent. Regina quietly held her eyes through the mirror, her expression changing from one of cautious judgment to one of concerned understanding. They sat in silence for a few moments. 

“Allison—people like you. Don’t think too hard about it.” Regina dried her hands and reached down to help Allison off the ground. 

She accepted Regina’s hand and stood up. “Thank you,” Allison whispered. Regina nodded and left the bathroom without another word. 

Allison took a deep breath, looked at herself in the mirror, and followed soon after. With each step, the drums subsided. The symphony decreased in tempo and volume. Allison plastered a smile on her face and rejoined Peter, who was staring teary-eyed at pictures of Michael’s new grandson. Eventually, all Allison heard were the single notes of a solitary piano, playing a melody tinged with disappointment and frustration. 

Four hours and six Diet Cokes later, Allison and Peter left the party. Peter rambled about how the party was a success, but Allison was sinking into her exhaustion. She relished the low hum of the engine as they drove home. 

Peter seemed elated. “That was fun! I really like Michael. You know, he was telling me that someday, when you make partner …” 

Allison’s focus drifted away from Peter’s voice. The lights of the road blurred. 

Was every party going to be that difficult? 

Peter noticed she had stopped listening. He glanced over at her, softly smiling. “Hey, I’m proud of you. It seems like you handled that really well.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“You’d never know it.” Allison was quiet again. She heard the piano playing faintly from every bar or restaurant they passed. Maybe one day—hopefully one day—she would make peace with the ever-present threat of a crescendo. Until then, she would just have to hang on. 

The couple pulled into their driveway. Allison watched the clock on the dashboard change to midnight: 27 days.

Murphy DePompei, a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh School of Law and current associate at Dinsmore & Shohl,, won the 2025 ABA Journal/Ross Writing Contest for Legal Short Fiction with "26 Days." Read an interview with DePompei about her story here.

The ABA Journal/Ross Writing Contest for Legal Short Fiction awards a $5,000 prize to the winning writer of a story that illuminates the role of the law or lawyers in modern society. The winner is judged by a panel selected by the Journal’s editor and publisher and confirmed by the Journal’s Board of Editors. Entries cannot be longer than 5,000 words. The deadline for the 2025 contest is May 1, 2025. Read contest rules here.