Becca pulled the last bit of Hanes cotton panty from her ass as the elevator doors slid open. God, she really hoped a security camera hadn’t seen that. She’d decided to wear the red dress today – the one with the “sexy” low back that rode up her thighs, thus wedging said cotton panties in between said ass with every step towards the elevator.
For having a mustache, the guy at reception was hot. Becca approached the desk and tried her best attempt at a “sexy” half smile. It mostly looked weird.
“I’m here to see Paris Riley?” she asked/said, not really sure if she was asking or saying. Hot mustache guy stared at her for a second. Becca stared back. Her ballet flats were starting to feel sweaty on her feet.
“And you are?” he finally asked, mustache twitching.
“Oh! I’m Rebecca. Grumet. I’m here for an interview. Not like, for a real job. For an internship. Not that I don’t take that kind of thing seriously–”
“Cool. Have a seat.”
“I’m here a little early, actually. I beat the traffic! Crazy, right?”
“Okay. Did you want me to wait?”
“Um. No, that’s okay.” Backing away, Becca took a seat on a squiggly shaped bench, slouching over before remembering to keep her back straight like her mother always told her. It makes your fat crumple, she’d said. The last thing Becca wanted was for her fat to crumple.
Just then, a tall bombshell in fuck-me-heels took a seat next to her on the squiggly bench. Like Becca, she held a manila folder most likely containing a resume, only hers was cute and pink and definitely not crumpled with chocolate stains from a FiberOne bar. This girl, woman, Becca corrected, looked like she’d walked right out of the Tri Delt house on campus. Like a bitchier Scarlett Johansson, with even better hair and she’d probably never even had an awkward man voice phase.
Becca suddenly became very aware of the fact that her plastic razor that morning had been too jammed with hair to actually shave her leg. The patchy skin of her knee was covered in a meadow of black prickly hair, not to mention the scab from where she’d scratched her dry pores until they bled the other day like a 5 year old’s. Great. Just great.
Bombshell looked good. Bec, on the other hand, was having serious second thoughts on the crumpled blazer she’d picked to wear over her dress. She decided the small amount of makeup she’d attempted to apply in the form of smudgy eye liner and shiny lip gloss made her look like a clown. She felt like a clown. A big phony. What was she even doing here? Life was so much better back home on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and three back-to-back episodes of Breaking Bad.
That was it. Decision made. She’d leave and let Scarlett Johansson get the stupid job. No harm, no foul. Wasn’t that how these things worked in Hollywood?
And then, out of nowhere, Hot Mustache Guy’s voice rang out into the lobby. “Rebecca? Paris will see you now.”
Becca clutched her chocolate-stained resume, and, with a big breath, took the elevator up to the internship interview she wouldn’t get. She was sure of one thing only: her fat was in no way crumpled.
