The cheap brown envelope crumpled beneath the door as I swung it open. I picked it up with a soggy glove as I slammed the door shut against the horizontal rain. I didn’t recognise the address printed on the back of the flap. Tossing it on the kitchen counter for the moment, I peeled myself out of a wet coat and hat. Five more CVs had been handed out before the pelting rain drove me home. All of them had been met with dull stares and grunts.
I clicked on the kettle and set out mug and teabag before picking up the letter again and ripping my thumb through the gummed flap.
“We are sorry to inform you that on this occasion we will not be proceeding with your application…”
It was Job 300 on my evergrowing list. The details bubbled back. I could have done it bound and blindfolded.
The empty mug smashed against the wall before I knew I had lifted it. I heard the shriek before I decided to scream. I felt myself hit the floor before I realised my legs had buckled. I slumped against a cupboard.
The kettle whistled.