JENNIE
I whisk up to the giddy heights of a shiny metal tower in an elevator with a couple of posh women who are regaling their weekend at a yachting regatta off Catalina Island. And boy, do I feel out of place.
I've worked from home for over a year, primarily in my pajamas. My new bra feels too tight, my pencil skirt like a straitjacket, and my feet are already pinching inside my kitten heels because, apparently, they've been molded into the shape of slippers.
I'm not used to 'fancy' anything anymore. The doors eventually ping open on the twenty-second floor to an ivory-colored marble floor. Dark leather adorns the reception lounge, and the two gazelles next to me clip-clop out in a plume of brand-name perfume and then disappear behind a frosted door marked The M Media.
Wiping my clammy hands on my skirt, I walk up to a broad desk with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of San Diego Bay under a stormy sky.
A prim, mature lady with slick and glorious black hair looks up from behind her computer and stops clacking away at the keyboard.
God, is she Miss Korea?
"Good morning. May I help you?"
"Yes, hi. I have an interview with Miss Lalisa Manoban," I say with a squeak.
"Jennie Kim?"
"Yes."
"I'll let her know you are here. Please take a seat over there." She gestures to the corner of the room with a couple of intern-looking types shifting nervously in their seats and then whispers, "She's not even half as scary as she makes out."
Scary?
Oh, great.
"Do I have time to go to the bathroom?" I look down at my phone, then at her nametag. "Jisoo?"
Jisoo glances at her computer screen just as the phone rings and covers the mouthpiece of her headset. "Her meeting is running about ten minutes late, so yes." She smiles and winks, and I dash to the left, then realize I have no clue where I'm going. I look over my shoulder. Of course, Jisoo is pointing to the right.
"Thanks," I mumble and shuffle through the door.I lock myself in a stall, phone in one hand, and pull out my compact mirror from the depths of my bag to gauge just how catastrophic I look.
Wow. Actually, not that bad at all, considering I've been stood up, shot by a kid multiple times, and dunked in coffee. And all before nine am. If only I were this productive in all facets of my life.
Well, bad things come in threes, apparently, so I've had my quota for the day, right?
Either way, sweater looks great and hides the stain, and even though I ran most of the way, I'm only a little bit shiny and wind-swept. I fuss over my hair, smoothing down the wispy blonde bits determined to stick up on end.
Suddenly, an emerald-laden hand appears beneath me, and I startle, dropping my phone in the toilet.Oh, for fuck's sake.
That's number four!
How do I end this absolute -
"Any toilet paper?" shouts a voice.I look at my phone, the roll, and finally, at the hand.
Such a difficult decision.Ugh.I shove my compact mirror in my bag and quickly snap off a few squares. "Here you go." Then roll up my right sleeve, lunging for my phone. I pull it out with my index finger and thumb.
God, gross. I'm gross.
"More. I need some more."
The demanding hand is back.
