Interview Blues

You said pleasant goodbyes to your family outside of the airport, covering up the overwhelming joy that could have sprung up in your voice at any moment. Even if it was just an interview, you crave a reason to back to your city, your Washington, DC.

In your city, you smiled smugly, feeling like Jackie O. in the hired car, buzzing along the Beltway. You stuck your tongue out at a woman driving a Camry. Haha, she can’t see you. You hoped.

You thought about the king-sized bed you were going to swim in tonight. Oh momma. You tried not to think about the number of people who’d probably had sex in it, but they change the sheets in hotels, you tell yourself. Anything is better than the twin sham you sleep in at home.

That night, the poshy restaurant you meet friends in does not help your smugness. And peer pressure prevails and you order a glass of dry white, which your new connoisseur’s buds tell you is wise, considering the humidity making your hair stand on end, and it goes well with your fancy cod dish.

You ate more quickly that usual, thinking about that bed. Oh, that bed with its fluffy 600 thread count sheets, and layers and layers of blankets, waiting for you to peel them back and insert yourself.

You wash your face, brush your teeth, remove your contact lenses—rushing, like there’s a man waiting for you in your king-sized bed.

You rip back the covers and leap in. You sink deep down into them and nestle your head between the pillows like a man in his woman’s bosom. You breathe a big, fish-and-wine scented breath of relief. Say a little prayer and turn off the light. You close your eyes.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait for sleep to come like the man you’d wished were in this huge bed with you.

You turn on your stomach. You flip to the cool side of the pillow.

Your heart is beating louder than your breathing. Each beat rattles not just your chest, but your stomach, your throat, and worst of all, your head. You wish that it would stop beating so you can sleep.

Stop beating so loudly, you quickly correct yourself.

Turn back onto your back.
Is it the faint light from the street streaming through the sheer curtains that’s keeping you awake?

No.

Perhaps too many carbs at dinner, with fish and rice?

No.

You wish you’d had another glass of wine; you wouldn’t be having this conversation with yourself if you had. You’d be melting your troubles away in slumber.

You raise your hand. In the dark, it’s big, but feminine. Your fingers are longer than you expected. But so are your stories.

You hear a voice outside. It’s a woman singing, quite well, actually. You can’t tell if she’s drunk or homeless, but at any rate, she’s good. All you can hear are the lulls of her voice, the highs and lows of her rhythm, but no perceptible words. You pretend she’s singing the gospel, telling you to hold on, be faithful, everything’s gonna be alright.

A man yells, “Girl, you can sing!” and it’s followed by giggling.

At home, you think, it would be, “Gurl, you can sang!” You wonder why some people in the South constantly dwell in the past tense. Perhaps they have no futures because they refuse to create anything in the present. Ha, you got that from your mother.

Bored, you run over questions that you could ask them in the interview, to sound engaging and intellectual, but not overly pretentious.

“In what ways will working in this position develop or enrich me professionally and personally?”

That’s goooood.

“What is the most valuable skill you have acquired in your time here?”

Also good.

“How would you describe the office atmosphere?”

Eh, that’s alright.

You hope they don’t ask about your creative writing like the last interview.

“What will you do if you’re working 100 hours a week and don’t have time to write?”

You’d smiled nonchalantly and flicked your wrist flippantly. “I’ll be fine,” you’d said. “It wouldn’t be taking anything away from me.”

You know you lyin’, your soul quipped.

Now, in that big bed, you sigh, exasperated. You’re afraid to look at the clock because it might tell you how much sleep you’re not going to get tonight.

Oh damn, you looked anyway. 2.38am and your wake up call is set for 6.30.

What can you do?

You clasp the hotel pen and notepad and choose not to be a liar any longer.