Dreadful Desire

Love is dreadful. Love is hopeless. Love is – murder.

Love only results in excruciating pain and disheartening despondency.

Love stripped her from my life. Love deprived me of my childhood.

Gazing at my mother’s photograph, these words permeate my mind: How this attachment to another destroyed the very being I crave to partake in life’s experiences. Because of it, she was unable to attend my high school graduation and is nonexistent now.

No speeches of thrilled excitement on my accomplishments, what life might entail, explanations on preparations for upcoming interviews, or bestowing relationship advice when unsolicited. Just a vast emptiness where the thumping organ below my rib cage used to reside.

I will NEVER allow my heart to feel affection for another; it’s futile. It will only result in my inevitable agony and the atrocious eradication of my very existence.

I refuse to follow in your foolish footsteps.

Love will be the literal annihilation of me.

I liberate a lung-filled sigh with a heavy heart, stifled waterlogged eyes, clearing the massive wedge in my throat, carefully stowing her picture in the sleeve of my wallet, straightening my cap, smoothing my gown, preparing for another Pomp and Circumstance deprived of her.

I finally completed my college degree, graduated a week ago, and am ready to take on the world. Feelings of deflation float in my vicinity, a mere amount. Three interviews have been accomplished thus far. However, no one desires to hire a newbie fresh out of college.

Experience! Experience is all they crave, but how am I to acquire experience if employers refuse to hire those who lack it? This system is wrecked, and I haven’t the slightest idea of how to market myself as an inexperienced, educated graduate in the business finance world.

Conceding is not an option. I worked hellish, lengthy hours to acquire my degree just to toss in the towel now. The headaches, the nights where sleep evaded me, high on energy drinks and junk food, grueling harrowing papers, mid-terms, finals, oh no world, I’m a force to be reckoned with, and you will feel my wrath. I refuse to abandon the future I struggled so hard to obtain.

Adorning my best interview outfit, a black pencil skirt with mermaid ruffles cascading down the back, along with the matching mermaid jacket, my angel sleeve white shirt, which has an outline of beige to match my beige shoes, and a black purse to retain my resume and cover letter.

The drive to the interview is relatively short—thirty minutes in traffic. I’m ecstatic I’ve arrived early, allowing me to flush out the flutters in my stomach and the Sahara Desert forming in my throat.

Thankfully, the building where my interview will be held has a parking garage, which saves time on the impossible search for parking in Manhattan. The interview will be held at Cross Enterprises, the best establishment for business on the downfall—a place I would work for with pride.

Shifting my gear into park, I shut the engine off, taking notice of the loud, shrieking noise emanating from the hood. Shrugging my shoulders now is not the time. I have 30 minutes to prepare before my interview, but require my morning tea. There was a little shop just before the garage. I’ll make my way there before I endeavor on my fourth interview.

Entering the coffee shop, I’m astounded by the elegance. No expense was spared in creating the ambiance. I’m a little taken aback by all of the expensive-looking décor. I view sleek black, bright white, and matte gray art lining the walls. Even the paintings radiate luxury. Vast marble tabletops of shiny black, white, and gray line the outskirts of the venue, accompanied by eye-catching polished chairs decorated with fluffy gray material cushions that mimic little pillows of heaven for the comfort of your backside. My mind reels with the thought of the cost of a mere tea.

Reaching the counter, I’m greeted by the warmest welcoming barista, inquiring about my preference. Her smile distracts my train of thought. It’s perfection, with her teeth lined straight and glowing white, accentuating her perfect high cheekbones and accompanying her beautiful soft brown eyes, which leads me to her lustrous brown hair set in a bun resting atop her head. This woman is model-worthy. I question myself: Why is she squandering her beauty while working behind the counter? I ponder if she’s even privy to her beauty.

Clearing her throat caught my attention. I was so immersed in cataloging her alluring features I hadn’t responded to her query. With remorse, I exclaimed, “My apologies, I’ll have a medium green tea with raw honey, please. By the way, your eyes are captivating. They remind me of someone from my past.”

The lovely girl smiles warmly and nods her head at me as I drift off into pleasant memories of my mother. I shake my head back and forth in an animated manner to avoid stirring up any emotions; right now is not the time for that. I’ve withheld my tears for this long; another day won’t kill me.

My tea is ready in the blink of an eye. She reappears at the counter, tea in hand. “That will be five dollars and sixty-two cents.” Rummaging in my substantial black purse, I hand over exact change, contemplating that it was not as bad as I had anticipated given the glamor of the establishment.

Scanning for a cleansed, unoccupied table, a lonesome surface in the corner catches my eye. Strolling to the end of the premises, I perch on the gray material seat, noting the cushions mimic fluffy pillows of heaven to rest on. It resembles floating on a puffy cloud. My cheeks are well-cushioned and comforted.

I gaze around the shop, admiring the art on the wall before me. It has splashes of inky black, gunmetal gray, and pearly white paint. It seems like someone excitedly threw the paint together in chaos to stir up emotion.

I extract my wallet, exhaling a deep breath, as I withdraw her picture, craving her presence and well wishes to settle the nerves cartwheeling in my stomach. Gazing at her picture, it’s of my mother and me. Our resemblance is astounding. We both adorn equivalent eye shapes and coffee-colored hues, a smile that brightens up a room, and I was fortunate enough to be bestowed with her long, luscious hair.

I can recall the day the photograph was taken as if it were yesterday. We snapped it just a week prior to the “accident.” Merriment ruled us that day. Her smile was infectious, and you reciprocated without fail. An omnipotent ache arises in my chest, threatening tears to escape. She’s no longer among the living, but I’ve held on to the notion that she guides me daily.

The sting of tears welling up in my eyes, a knot in my stomach, and a lump in my throat suggest that it’s time to pack away the hurtful memories and prepare for my upcoming interview.

Consuming the last drop of my green tea, I rise from the table and stroll to the garbage, discarding my cup. Beelining for the bathroom, I require a final once-over before stalking upstairs, oozing confidence and knocking this interview out of the park.

Locking the door behind me, my checklist commences: hair nicely curled, check; makeup still intact, check; lipstick, my lips require another layer of lip stain accompanied by an added layer of gleaming lip gloss.

Popping my lips, I stroke one final glaze across my perky kissers; I stare into the mirror, feeling content with the woman gazing back at me. Placing my makeup back in my bag, I unlock the door and head to conquer this interaction.

Strolling forward, my eyes veer inside my bag, ensuring my phone is tucked away and silenced. I inspect the wrinkle status of my cover letter and resume. Perfect! Not a crinkle in sight.

The edges of my lips pull, raising my head to be met by an impermeable mass, a taut chest that has swung around just as my body collided with his.

Coffee floats in the air as if in slow motion; my body cascades to meet the awaiting floor. A hand extends to halt my tumble, apprehending my flailing arm. Upon connection, a jolt of electricity stimulates every nerve in my body to life.

As fortunate as I am to have been seized from my inevitable meeting with the flat surface below me, coffee assaults me, splashing down on my outfit. Stains coat my once-white shirt, stinging my flesh.

In utter disbelief – what a windfall of bad fortune! Peering at the hand grasping my arm, noticing the multitude of tattoos that dance across their skin intrigues me. Shaking my head, I whisk away my fascination, comprehending my interview is in 10 minutes.

Nervousness and anxiety get underway. What shall I pursue to rectify this dreadful situation? Rolling my eyes, I register the horrific situation that has just unfolded. Unable to comprehend a muffled voice, I focus solely on my following action to solidify my employment; now that I am laced in coffee, I ignore any assistance.

How am I supposed to conference reeking of coffee, seeming as if I bathed in it? My flaming orbs focus on the person before me, opening my mouth to release my unhinged outrage.

“Don’t you use your eyes when you stroll about? Especially possessing scalding hot coffee. Look at my attire! You have ruined it! Jerk!”

His lips separate for a rebuttal, I’m unwilling to harken any excuses. My hand rises before him, palm flat. “I have an interview in 10 minutes. I can’t be bothered by the likes of you right now. I have to devise a plan to unblemish my clothing.” Waving my hands over my body, observing that my shirt is now translucent, my arms crisscross over my ample bosom.

Cheeks burn with feverish embarrassment. I twist on the balls of my feet, scurrying to replicate my steps back to the bathroom in a foolish attempt to wipe this disaster from my clothing. Peeling off my now stalk white, coffee brown plastered shirt from my flesh, I blast the blistering scorching water, placing the coffee-stained shirt under the spout, rubbing with fury, in the hopes that muddy discoloration vanishes into thin air. Damn it! I love this shirt; it’s one of my favorites.

Buffing the shirt in every direction with vigor, I pray to the interview gods for mercy; the soiled splatters have disappeared. Clutching the shirt and hoisting it to the light, I alleviate my tension with positive affirmations. “Well, it’s mostly removed,” shrugging my shoulders in a miserably failed attempt at optimism. After striving for cleanliness, the vast wet spot and coffee ring are clearly visible. Damn it, what shall I concoct in such a short amount of time?

Ruffling through insane proposals floating in my head, I finalize adorning the blouse backward, concealing the huge blotch with my mermaid suit jacket. Glancing at the solution in the mirror, I conclude it’s not the most flattering; however, it’s more suitable than a massive sepia helix. Given the circumstances, this is the best remedy, given my time constraint.

Extending an agitated arm, I require a fresh scent to conceal the lingering aroma of java when realization swats me in the face. In all the chaotic pandemonium, I abandoned my purse where the commotion transpired. My absent-mindedness in the flustered of events is foolish. My head moves back and forth for my ludicrous actions.

In a distressed frenzy, I scamper out to view a tattooed hand grasping the handles of my handbag, extending his arm when I come out into view, a toothy grin on full display. Perturbed, I charge towards the man who sabotaged my ensemble, snatching my belongings. A sarcastic “Thank you” seeps from my lips, triggering my chestnut hues to flip to the high heavens in a well-deserved eye roll, stampeding to take my leave.

“You’re welcome,” vibrates in my ears, accompanied by a low snicker, as if this is something to guffaw at. Pausing to face him, “You think this is a laughing matter? I have an important meeting, reek of coffee, and my attire is riddled with muddy rings. How am I to impress and acquire a job looking disheveled, with the funk of coffee wafting in the air?” Throwing my hands in the air, I gesture to my ruined ensemble.

As if an invitation was delivered, his eyes roam the entirety of my body, up and down, evoking a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. What the hell was that?

“What’s your name? Thanks to your obliviousness, you’ll be receiving all of my bills when I’m rejected from this opportunity?”

The curve of his lips exhibits a devilish grin, “Alexander Napoleon.”

Perplexed, my eyebrows unify, eyes narrow, and I shake my head in disbelief. For the first time since our encounter, I examine his features. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of gray. The most entrancing hues I’ve ever observed to be possible. They’re like spheres of storm clouds on a rainy day waiting to explode into a tsunami, but that chaos fails to reach his magnificently sculpted face.

I exhale a short breath in an exhausted attempt to conquer my exasperation when he probes. “Do you always speak to people in this manner that you’ve only just met?”

His query snaps me out of my encumbered trance, “Only when it’s warranted! What? Are you some sort of unique human being where your careless actions don’t justify such a tumultuous reaction?” Lashing out in a moment of firey rage, heat rises from my neck to sear my cheeks.

“Most people remain tight-lipped with me. They would think twice before reacting as you just did.” His full lips stretched across his mesmerizing face.

“I’m my own person, and your negligence may have cost me a huge opportunity. My reaction is sanctioned!” Twisting on the balls of my feet, stalking away, I disregard his feeble attempt to articulate.

Soaring through the doorway, I check the time. Viewing in distress, two minutes! Two minutes! Panic ravages my nerves; expeditiously stalking through the rotating door, I push the button for the elevator in high hopes it will appear with haste. A habit I have witnessed numerous times, acknowledging it’s of no use, and here I am displaying the same asinine behavior.

Considering the stairs, 15 flights will cause sweat to build. Combined with the lingering scent of coffee, no thank you. I finalize on waiting with impatience.

The doors finally separate, veering my eyes to look up, impatiently waiting for everyone to exit. I strive to be on time. Rushing into the mahogany enclosure, the doors close. A man slides between the doors before shutting, statuesque, blocking the buttons. His voice fills the tiny atmosphere. “What floor?” Without peering my way as he inquires.

That voice, oh, that voice! It’s him! I spew before a rational thought can formulate, “What! Are you trailing me now?” He repeats his prior query, “What floor?” I notice the balls of his cheeks rise.

Succumbing to his relentlessness, I throw my hands in the air and shake my head. I don’t have time for his childish shenanigans. “Fifteen, and wipe that smug smirk off your face. This isn’t a laughing matter!” Pressing fifteen, he inquires, “What are you interviewing for?”

I respond with reluctance, cognizant of my situation for the next 15 floors. “Financial Adviser.” Twisting with the slightest movement, lifting an eyebrow, his judgment oozes from his demeanor.

“What? Can I not be proficient with numbers?” Rolling my eyes, I shake him off, focusing on myself mentally to acquire this new position, making the best impression after the morning I’ve had.

The doors finally detach, zooming past him without another word to the man with the hand tattoos and stormy light gray eyes. I peer back to view the edges of his lips curl as the doors meet once again.