She fumbled the key in the lock, and it dropped noiselessly on the welcome mat. Removing her gloves, she tried to retrieve the key with her numb fingers. Her hands were cold. Sore. Raw. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"
She was of course, referring to her habit. Her bad habit. Ringing her hands together over and over, until they were red raw and the blood bristled at the surface of her skin. Painful? yes, but life had dealt her far worse blows.
Back in the apartment, she trailblazed a new road of restlessness. Her anxiety disorder was wreaking havoc on the uneven traffic pile in the carpet. But she was expecting a call. Now, the waiting game...
Her mind was on rewind, as she reviewed the interview. Wait, interrogation! A panel of five. Three men, two women, for an entry level position? Really? That was unexpected. She really needed this job and hoped that her personality shone through. Not her hands.
It was tough. She felt like a raw carrot going through the smallest hole of the food grater. Such force, such pressure. Down to the knuckle. Questions quickly coming at her from every side. Over and over. Her past, her present, her future, her inability to keep a job for more than a few months. It was so hot in the room. And her hands were hot too. Burning hot. She was squeezing them.
She couldn't read them. But they read her well. Red raw.
More ringing. This time the phone. Even with the ringer setting on high, it barely registered above the noise of her thoughts. She answered it, completely out of breath, although the handset was well within arms reach. "Yes, this is Jill speaking..."
One of them went on to explain why they offered the job to someone else. To a more "suitable" candidate. She listened, not hearing, then hung up the phone. "Great" she said. "Just great!"
Posted for Sunday Scribblings