I took the stairs two at a time, headed up to the eighth floor. I wondered, for the third time, whether showing up at a new job wearing a red baseball cap, camouflage cargo shorts and a ribbed white tank top the thickness of tissue paper was such a good idea. I shrugged it off. I just needed to sign a paycheck form at the front desk. That was it.
Besides, I liked to think of my look as Dyke Chic (Tallahassee Edition). For me, it was the short, thick beaded silver chain that set off the whole look. Added intrigue. Texture.
After this quick pit stop, I was headed out to meet friends for a late afternoon drink, my last of my pre-full-time job era. I’d put off the adult world, which already seemed stiflingly boring, with grad school for as long as possible. This afternoon encapsulated my last bit of freedom, which is what I was ruminating on when I heard someone call my name.
I turned to see the woman who’d interviewed me, a woman about my mother’s age, walking toward me, hair teased just so, red lipstick. In tow was a tall, severe woman who looked capable of churning butter and butchering livestock before lunch, and a slight woman with stark, snowy curls and eyes lined and rimmed just so with mascara.
She introduced me, the woman I’d interviewed with, who’d seemed so intent on my perfection for the job, with resignation in her voice:
“This is Kendra,” she sighed. “She looked a lot better at the interview.”