Mr. Payne's head lifts and in that moment the years of planning, research, petty jobs that caused blisters too numerous to count, and good old fashioned hard work dissolve into a cloud of fog. A thick, stifling fog that is blurring my vision and making it hard to breathe. I can't think. The only notion that keeps entering my brain is ... hot damn, he's gorgeous.
My fingers curl at my side to prevent them from molesting his thick brown hair. They want to do silly things like play hairdresser. I try to turn my attention away from his hair to his eyes, which just makes it worse. They are a cloudless blue and I think I can hear the faint sounds of a seagull in the distance. Okay, Morgana, focus on his strong nose or chiseled jaw or his ... oh God I can't stop myself. Now I am wet in all the right places.
This. Is. Not. Good.
Chapter 2 - THE After Effects ...
It's been three days since THE interview and as I mentioned in my previous post Mr. Henrik Payne is known to be a ball buster/vagina smasher and a very handsome one at that. I am starting to think that's not the correct phrasing when describing the man. A more appropriate analysis is silent but deadly. To get a full understanding of what I am explaining, I'll take you back to the beginning. It all starts on a beautiful autumn day, the year 1985. A young couple named Annette and James Drake ... oh wait that is WAY too far back. Let me start again.
When I last left you I happened to be sitting in a sticky fog of hormonal hyperventilation. It takes a few minutes for that to clear and for me to come back to my senses. At one point Mr. Payne becomes so alarmed at my state he directs me to lie on his couch until I feel well enough to continue with the interview. To say I am mortified greatly undersells the situation. At this moment, as color returns to my face, I start to plan my suicide. Death by pints of ice cream, candy bars and hours of 30 Rock reruns.
Eventually I do complete the interview which isn't at all how I imagined it to be. Mr. Payne stares at his phone, computer or my resume the whole time. Every few minutes the interview is interrupted with phone calls or emails he "just has to deal with." I take it as a sign of his typical working day and adjust my answers accordingly. Even his rapid fire questioning I accept with ease, despite my earlier mishap. What I am not prepared for is his robotic like expression.
I will let you in on a little secret. Something that has allowed me to work my way up the corporate ladder so quickly. I can read people. There are tiny little tics and facial expressions people give off without realizing it that can tell me everything I need to know. I learned this trick from my roommate, Jan, in college. She was a psychology major. Apparently there is a whole field of study in the area of body language.
Anyway, like the desperate woman I am I try to read this man's face. Nothing. Not even a flush of his cheeks. So, I have to just give my answers as best I can and pray to the mighty god THE, ruler of all things THE, that he/she will see fit to make Mr. Payne like what comes out of my mouth.
This is when the silent part enters the story. The interview ends, only I have no idea it is finished because he never tells me. I just sit there like an idiot smiling at him, trying not to fantasize about his strong arms as he continues typing away at his computer. Finally he stands and leaves the room. I remain seated for another fifteen minutes until the blonde woman who originally showed me into the room comes back.
"Ms. Drake. The interview is over. Mr. Payne left this for you."
She walks over to where I am still seated, handing me an envelope and then exits. Stunned, I pick up my bag and make my way out to the lobby elevators. One opens and I step into the barren box. I must have really pissed him off, if he left without a word. Perhaps he became aware of my leering. As I make a mental list of all the possible things that could have ruined the interview, almost fainting topping the list, I glance down at the envelope and decide to open it. My shaking hands rip the paper and pull out the white letter with the black Times New Roman typeface. My eyes widen and my brain takes a few seconds to comprehend the words spaced neatly on the page.
I bring my hand to my mouth to stifle the scream that fights to break free while tears run down my face. How is this even possible?
Chapter 3 - THE Letter ...
I feel sick as in I-shouldn't-have-had-the-last-half-of-the-eggnog-latte sick. Have you ever read something that isn't quite right, so you read it several times before the words actually sink in? That is my reaction to Mr. Payne's letter. It's ... odd. I still have no idea if I got the job. You can read it and be the judge (and let me know I'm not crazy!).
Dear Ms. Drake:
Thank you for your time today. Our meeting was quite informative.
I'm going to stop right here for a moment. These first two lines are standard. He most likely uses these sentences on every business correspondence he has and probably some personal ones. Imagine him sending an email to a girlfriend:
Dear Bimbo (because I imagine that is the type of woman he dates ... what? Stop looking at me like that!);Thank you for the blow job today. It was very relaxing.