Academy Of American Bullshit

thirst.

It began simply. A cup of coffee sitting on a mahogany table in a high end café. The table was unoccupied at the moment, the coffee's owner having left to ask for some more creamer. Steam rose gracefully out of the cup, and caressed the air in a momentary display of gaseous romance. Quick, clipped footsteps approached the table with a small silver pitcher, and with a sharp inhale, the coffee's owner sat down. She was out of place. Everyone else in the café knew the difference between Irish creme and Half&Half. Everyone else in the café didn't shop at the local Goodwill for all of their clothes, or spend hours in the library sitting next to a homeless man on an outdated computer monitor because they can't afford the internet bill. She was short and pudgy, her black satin blazer was frayed at the end of the right sleeve, and her heels were a size too small. She stared into the coffee, pouring a small amount of cream into it from the pitcher. She put all of her focus into the cup, watching the liquids clash, the cream creating soft explosions in the dark coffee. A plastic spoon on the side of the table seemed to wait patiently for her to use it to stir the coffee. But she didn't. She continued to stare, seeming to forget that she was supposed drink the coffee. She tugged lightly at the thin blonde strands of hair that framed her face, absentmindedly humming a pop song she had heard on the bus ride to the café. A few minutes into her daydreaming, she heard a loud banging coming from the kitchen. Someone had dropped a few plates. She blinked a few times and picked up the cup, bringing the coffee to her lips. She took a sip, and quickly spat it back into the cup. She hated cold coffee.
"Ahem." Somebody cleared their throat above her.
She looked up and turned a bright shade of scarlet, stuttering her greeting.
"Hi, uh, can I help you?" She managed to choke out.
The person standing above her was a man well into his fifties, his sandy blonde toupee was lopsided and he smelled strongly of commercial brand cologne. He was dressed smartly, a dark denim overcoat and khaki slacks. She found him slightly intimidating. He seemed irritated.
"Eliza Manning?" He asked. She noted how off puttingly nasally his voice was. She nodded, confirming that was her name. "I'm Frederick Holt, from Smartview Publishers. I'm here for your interview."
Eliza cursed silently. She had forgotten why she came to the café, until he interrupted her daydreaming.
"Yeah, of course, sit down, Mr. Holt." she said shakily.
Frederick looked her over with a judgmental eye, making Eliza uncomfortable. He sat swiftly, and got directly to business.
"At Smartview, we don't publish just anyone, Ms. Manning, I hope you are aware. There is a standard that we as a company have to uphold..."