She is early, so she sits in the lobby chair and does the thing they all do: rehearses under her breath, folds and unfolds the printed pages, presses her damp palms flat against her thighs to dry them. She thinks her hands are betraying her. I would give anything to have hands that sweat. To be nervous enough about tomorrow that my body leaks.
There is a clock on the wall she keeps checking, willing it faster, wishing this part over. Slow down, I want to tell her. This part, the waiting, the too-warm coffee going cold in the paper cup she is too jittery to drink, the small talk with the man at the desk about the weather. This is the part. You will not remember the questions. You will remember that your good shoes pinched, and you will miss even that.
They call her name and she stands too fast, tugs her jacket straight, walks in on legs that carry her without being asked. She shakes a stranger's hand. Skin on skin, warm and slightly clammy, and neither of them notices the small miracle of it, the heat passing between two living palms.
She thinks she wants this job. What she has, right now, is better than any job: a morning she is afraid of, a future still deciding itself, a heart going fast in a chest that will carry her home tonight to a kitchen that smells like someone waiting.
Get it, or don't, child. Either way, walk out slow. Feel the door handle. Notice the cold air.
You have so much of it left, and every dull minute is the whole entire point.