Remembering those 45 minutes you danced the dance of forced words and self-concsious body language in her 31st office looking out over Elliott Bay. Sharing words of indecision and cautious laughter, trying to appease that part of her brain that says, "This boy is responsible, handsome, easy to get along with and a team player." Or the younger people - the ones you'd be sharing windowless office space with. Those 90 minutes scheduled for lunch that you and her and him played seriously over lunch, never letting the conversation become too jokey, running your fingers over the soffette's buttery leather, more buttery than the butter on your sourdough. You stare into his eyes and her eyes and the moments last for minutes as you sip nervously at your iced tea because even though you have little confidence you'd actually get this job, it would be in poor taste to order a beer. Or would it?
The point is that we were school children - innocent in our minds and actions and motivations. We were so foolish and our shoes were so shiny. Our nervous energy could've filled a million mylar balloons, which would've floated around your apartment for months, never letting go of those few short hours we spent in your office. The paper towel that I kept in my pants pocket to take the clammy from my hands and push the clammy to the edge of the universe would remind me of those days, layered with emotion and tension like lasagna is with ricotta and spinach.
The interview is mildly sexual by itself. And, metaphorically, it's a little like fucking. We never think about what we could've done to be invited upstairs or the ridiculousness of what we're doing - we're just fixated on you and me. And the unfortunate result of this interview could be a pregnancy - me becoming pregnant with a job, giving birth to a career. We'd watch it grow up and it would remind us of that drunken and regrettable, but still pretty magical, morning or afternoon. If we didn't protect ourselves and did allow me to actually get a job, though, our shirts would become itchier when we were around each other and we'd argue over finances and who didn't fill up the car. When you tell me I'm not going to have a job, we're both relieved. While I think I'd like one someday, I'm just not ready for that kind of responsibility. It's for the best that we leave it at that singular wonderful day that we shared. Thanks, baby.
