You’ve managed to escape the cesspit of a room you’re renting out for way too much money, the dog you usually love but who smells because your roommate (his owner) is too lazy to give him a bath, and you’ve resolved to take charge of your life and take a step towards finally getting that amazing job, starting with writing one cover letter.
You decide to set up shop in your local coffee shop. You’ve ordered the cheapest coffee on the overhead-menu-board, because hey, you’re funemployed. The table you were eyeing up has now been vacated and you dive on it like an orca doing a somersault in the ocean, masterfully preventing any spillage of your coffee. Get in! (British for YAAAS) You place down your bag and nestle your booty (Been living in the States for too long) into the seat. As you open your laptop, you feel you are being watched. And you are. By the late- 40s -looking guy at the table directly facing yours. He smiles, raises an eyebrow, and cocks his silver-haired head.
“He can’t be hitting on me? Right?”
You look around. Nope. Noone here but him, me, and the baristas…over there. Way over there. Why aren’t you guys closer!? Don’t get me wrong, this guy is not creepy, not immediately anyway. He looks like a guy who made his living as a photographer, shooting beautiful women as they lie on chaises longues. Either that or he was a war photographer. His face looks leathery and weathered, and he’s wearing caterpillar boots, khaki pants (hence war-photographer/safari-guide vibe) a cotton long sleeved t-shirt and a skinny scarf. He’s giving you long sultry glances. Ew.
You focus hard on your screen. Come on, Emma. Focus. You have to get this blasted cover letter over and done with.
“WHY is smiling at me?”
You feel his eyes piercing into you. No, just no. You start to feel as though the room is becoming smaller as he takes up more space. Your field of vision becomes limited to your 13” computer screen. The word doc is there, open, but at this point, you’re just re-reading the same line of the job description over and over again. This realization is momentarily interrupted by the sound of him beginning to softly sing, you look up again. SILLY EMMA. NO. Now you’re looking right at him and he’s tapping a beat with his foot, smiling at you again while adjusting the skinny, striped scarf around his neck.