3

It had been a bad idea to try and wash the stain out. I now stared, horrified, into the restroom mirror at the delicate pink flowers on my bra. A huge wet spot the size of my hand made every mole on my chest clearly visible. I had to get to that interview with Mr. Zepp, but I had no jacket to cover it up. I turned on the power hand drier and thrust my chest underneath it.

Susan, Mr. Zepp’s secretary, popped her head in. Still contorting under the drier, I looked up.

“Uh, pardon, me. Am I intruding?” Susan stared at my blouse.

“No, of course not. I’ll be right out.”

“Mr. Zepp doesn’t have much time,” Susan said flatly.

No more time to dry. I stuffed a paper towel in my shirt, checked my hair, and scooted out the door. I briskly made my way to Zepp’s door, which was open a crack. Still, I should knock.

Tap, tap, tap.

I heard Mr. Zepp on the phone, so I waited outside the door.

“I have to go; I have an interview to do,” Mr. Zepp said. I heard the phone land in the cradle. “Come in,” he called.

Mr. Zepp had a cozy office with bookshelves all around. His desk faced the window overlooking the Hudson. I longed for an office like this, instead of my cubicle in Customer Service. My “black hole” sucked me in away from the world. I could work all day without even knowing what kind of weather we were having. This meeting could be the beginning of my new career, my ascent up the corporate ladder, where I could sit in front of windows and work with the sun warming my toes . . .

“Have a seat, Deni. How fast do you type again?”