The Interview
Left, or right? A thin hand swept the strip of hair one way, then the other. Looking in the hand mirror he’d untucked from his pocket, he squinted left -- tilt -- right --tilt --
A swig of water. Rolled the glass between four fingers on both hands, tapped his left foot. No right. Ugh. Leaned back against the tasteful-tacky leather of the couch, let his neck fall back, his eyes flashing open to gaze lazy at the sitting room ceiling.
Tsilik knew he was stepping out of his comfort zone with this one, but he hoped that being able to add ‘auto-filatio capable’ to his resume might at least set him apart from the other candidates. He wanted - no, needed this job. It was elevated, and elevation was what he needed to get out of the skanky rut his life had fallen into. The young limeblood took a thick swig of water. Slight bob of his adam’s apple. Swallowed thicker, thicker than the anxiety beading his forehead that he wiped with a swift flick of the wrist and, exhaled. Eyes flicked to the clock, an abstract piece with those little metal lines instead of numbers - damn, he hated those. Couldn’t tell if it’d leapt an hour forward or was trailing its way back minute by minute every time he looked up.
Nearly a half hour into his wait and clearly, it was time to preoccupy himself. Pre-interview jitters were getting the best of him. He couldn’t go running out, not on this. Friends, family, a check over $15 --- but not this. Fuck if this wasn’t serious.
He was famished for a change of pace. So famished he’d bothered to dress up. At least enough to disguise his developmental stagnation ... to a degree. He’d come in his best - form fitting skinny jeans (with only TWO unneccesary zippers! two!), knee boots with a tasteful number of buckles ---- eyeliner that only came out a fourth-inch from his lash’s edge, rather than covering the entirety of his lids. Oh yeah. He’d really stepped it up for this. He’d HAD to get out the fancy frock. No childish frivolity. This was some serious shit. Body guard position for THE troll that had revolutionized medicine as the world this galaxy-side knew it. Big shit. Important shit.
Another thick swig to cure a dry, dry throat. A slight haze began to fall over his vision as the nerves swarmed, and - right foot at the floor, tap taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. Jingle jingle jingle jingle jangled piercings about his ears and etcetra.
A cough from the secretary behind the desk brought those stupid metal lines on the wall back into focus. A rough shake of his head, shift in the clench of his jaw. Couldn’t fuck this one up. Can’t fuck this up. Won’t fuck this up.
Another swig attempted --- empty. Dry. Damn. Ah. Well.
Tsilik Lazris sat idle on the couch he didn’t belong, rolling that empty glass between bony thirsty fingers. Playing as if he might belong there soon, if the cards fell just right. Waiting for his time to come.
A slight lean forward, eyeing the secretary curiously. A low cough of his own. “Hmmm ... Ah, uh. Miss. Any chance you’ve got a read on when Mr. Selios’ll be ready for the next interview?”
