“So.”
The interviewer tries to make eye contact with me, but my gaze wanders away from his square, dour face instinctively. He’s so ugly. From his dull, expressionless eyes to the sagging jowls to the ill fitting yellow shirt, I can tell he wants to be here even less than I do. I focus instead on the generic motivational poster behind him: “Life is full of stoplights, but eventually they all change to GO!” I roll my eyes.
In my head, it’s my mom’s voice urging me on with this meaningless platitude. Her unjustified enthusiasm has gotten me farther than anything I’ve done by myself. If she were here right now she’d encourage me with fairytales of all the experience and shit this job would get me. Please.
Finally, the man gets settled in his chair, coughs a few times, and then opens a manila folder on his lap. I can tell that he doesn’t like me by the way he raises his eyebrows when he clicks his pen open. It’s not his fault; I’m staring at him with harsh, judging eyes even though it should be the opposite.