Hey, hey, hey! I'm a sixteen-year-old girl with a passion for reading and writing. Aside from that, I enjoy correcting people, chocolate, and traveling.
I want your honest opinions. Don't spare my feelings; this needs work. Please keep your comments short, clean, and to the point.
Written By: Verity Fynn
July 4, 2015
There are no empty seats on the subway, so I am forced to stand. With a Starbucks coffee in one hand and my resume in the other, I run through potential questions I might be fielding during this interview. My name is Guadalupe Perez. I am tewnty-six years old. I'm the perfect fit for this job because I have great people skills, I am very articulate, and I truly show that I care. I'm certain that I'll clinch this job as a social worker. Anybody with eyes can see I'm practically made for it. The subway jerks to an abrupt stop, and I am forced to drop my resume to grab hold of the metal bar above my head. The paper flutters into the lap of a handsome man in his late thirties. His biceps flex as he reaches up to give it back to me, giving me a seductive smile. I smile back and make sure to smoothly unbutton the top two buttons of my blouse. Throughout the rest of my time on the train we keep stealing glances at each other when we think the other isn't looking.
Finally, the subway reaches my stop. The handsome stranger starts towards the door at the same time I do. We get off at the same station. I look back at him as I exit the train, give a tiny wave, flip my long black hair, and start up the steps towards the city and my job interview.
The city smells of cigarette smoke and hot dogs. I walk the cracked sidewalk and listen to the broken melodies of car horns and police sirens. Just as I'm about to turn down a different street, I hear a frantic, "Miss! Miss!" I look behind me and see Mr. Handsome from the subway, with his hair disheveled and half of his shirt untucked. "Please, help!"
"What is it?" I asked quickly.
"Please, my mother - I think she's had a heart attack. Please come help!"
I am all business. "Where is she?"
"This way," he says, and leads me down a crowded street, towards a large parking deck. We dash up four flights of stairs until I see that a grey minivan, which must be his car, is the only one on this level. "She's in the back," he says, opening the automatic door.
I jump in, and my first thought is that there is no elderly woman in the midst of cardiac arrest. In fact, there is no elderly woman, period. "Where-" I start to say, turning toward the man, when he shoves a handkerchief to my mouth and nose. I smell something sickly sweet, and I look into his eyes as things start to go black around the edges. My last concious thought is, "His car smells like perfume."