My heart pounds in my chest to the disjointed rhythm of something vaguely jazz fusion. Michael's footsteps resonate in the relative silence that his entrance forced upon the room. My muscles tense up as he walks past my chair towards the desk; my fingers dig deeper and deeper into the arms of the chair, until I'm almost certain that my nails have penetrated the fabric. Inside, I'm shrinking; outside, I'm straightening up, sitting tall, striking the most confident smile I can muster under the surmounting tension building in the back of my throat. While his back is still turned to me, I struggle to take in air. Short, shallow breaths will have to hold me over. He takes his seat and actually looks at me for the first time, though he doesn't seem to recognize me.


"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss... ?"

"Sawyer-Richardson," I say, scrambling to get out of my seat and approach his desk. "Kendall Sawyer-Richardson, sir," I somehow manage to remember to say as I accept his offer for a handshake while mentally going over the standard practice for strength of grip. Not too strong. Not too...


His hand practically crushes mine as I weakly pull my arm up and down. Thankfully, he ends this pathetic display quickly by letting go so I can walk the obligatory one step back to my chair and sit down for the interview. I almost fall into the trap of behaving casually, before stopping myself before sliding down in the chair and crossing my legs. Instead, I do the exact opposite: I sit as tall as I physically can and simultaneously push both feet into the ground. My hands rest over the holes popped into the furniture. I swallow, coating the back of my throat with enough saliva to keep my voice from breaking for a little while at least.

"So, Kendall- may I call you Kendall?"

I nod.

"Excellent. Tell me about yourself, Kendall."


"Uhm," I begin, feeling whatever confidence I did have stored up ripped completely out of me and thrown onto the ground. My heart's no longer beating in an arrhythmic rhythm. No, it's beating at a normal pace, only harder, heavier, almost as if it were throwing itself right into my sternum. His ears perk up at my stumble and his eyes look over his desk, almost as if he found a way to look down on me while we were at eye level. A couple more unsure, confidence lacking mumbles escape my lips which serve the same purpose as the first; to stall as long as need be to think of some fact about myself that has a modicum of interest to someone other than myself.

"Today, Miss Sawyer." Jesus, he's already going formal. This is either really bad, or really, really bad.


I cough.


"I'm a-"


My lips clamp shut.

"Hello?"

"Next question, please? I'm sorry, I'd rather not talk about myself."

"Whatever," he says, rolling his eyes before looking down at some prepared script for the next question. "Tell me about your last job."

"Bartender," I start, as cold and emotionally detached as I possibly can be. That tone, thankfully, keeps up through the rest of the explanation.

"For a few months; I left the job because of personal issues."

"Uh huh, and it says here in your application that you've been out of work for almost six months. Why's that?"

"Soul searching."

He's about as unimpressed with that excuse as I am.

"You must be terrible at it."

"I might very well be."

"It says you don't have any prior arrests, but with your unwillingness to cede any information about yourself to me, I have reason to doubt that. Do you really think you're clever enough to put one over on us, Miss Sawyer?"

I smirk.

"No, sir. I've never been in trouble with the law."

"You're lying."

"What's your proof?"

"Why else would you be so uncomfortable talking about yourself?"

"Low self esteem; not being too interesting; the fact that I'm not a histrionic bitch; pick one."

"Get the hell out of my office."

"Fine!" I get out of my seat, smirk still on my face as he shudders at how awkward the interview was for both of us. A sudden wave of defiantness rolls over me and I approach his desk and lay my hands atop the surface.


"What part of get out do you not understand?"

"To answer your question-"

"I'm gonna call security if you don't get out."

"I never said I never broke the law. I just wasn't caught."

His eyes grow wide and my smirk more sinister as I turn away from him and make my way out the door. Whatever apprehension, nervousness, whatever you would want to diagnose it as is as good as gone now, drowned by the approaching tidal wave of confidence that resonated off my little display. I wasn't an idiot; I knew that there would be a negative ten percent chance of me being hired but at this moment, perhaps for the first time in a long while, I didn't care.


That last one didn't hit until I hit the Lobby button in the elevator. However, when it did, the sheer force of the blow to my unsuspecting ego was enough to make me physically double over. That, I did care about.


Just as the elevator doors open, I feel the familiar, albeit in this situation heart wrenching sensation of my phone vibrating in the pokcet of my skirt.


I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, glaring at the message that popped up on the front lock screen. It wasn't from Kara, which is what I'd expected yet hoped wasn't. I release pent up air from my lungs that I didn't even know existed and slouch forward as to better read the screen.


Stuck, I stare blankly at the screen until a stressed, impatient woman who in all honesty couldn't be much older than I, but looked to be in her late 30's taps on my shoulder before bluntly stating: "This is your floor, right?"

"Um... yeah," I say, stepping out of the lift. "Thank you!" I call out to no response as the doors closely right behind me. Even if they didn't, I doubt the lady would care too much for my appreciation. Through the lavishly overdecorated lobby I went, brushing my way past the bigshots in three piece suits and overworked interns struggling to keep up and keeping my eyes on the extravagant pieces of modern art that was abstract enough to let potential employees know that this place was a definite liberal paradise for them; the type that reveled in a more modern organizational structure, organized motivational speakers, employed professional consultants, and made Casual Friday compulsory. However, that same art was just "traditional" enough to assure potential investors that they weren't too far off in the loony bin of liberalism. No gays were officially allowed, bible quotes were framed and hung in the offices of the upper management personnel, and the Second Amendment was larger than the rest of law in their eyes.

As I make my way through the massive lobby, I finally pass the front desk and the cheery to the point of creepiness reception smiles at me and barks out one of the standard, "have a nice day" prompts before looking back down at her desk and likely downing another bottle of antidepressants.

Phone still in hand; I finally unlock it and with a few taps of my finger against the screen; I'm calling my mom.


No answer. Straight to voice mail. I should've guessed.