They have put on the good shirt, the one kept in plastic, pressed so flat it forgets it was ever a living cotton plant standing in a field. Charming. Everything in this small bright room has been scrubbed toward stillness: the table wiped, the water poured fresh, the palms dried again and again on the trousers because the palms, at least, remember they are damp and warm and full of sugar.
We love a warm damp palm. We are patient with it.
Across the table the older ones ask their questions, and the young one answers with such care, leaning forward, promising to be useful, to be reliable, to last. To last. Oh, they do go on about lasting. As if the chair beneath them were not already softening in its glue, as if the paper resume in its clean folder were not sweetly acidic and slowly browning at the staple.
As if the coffee ring blooming at the table's edge were not a small welcome mat we left out overnight.
They call it a fresh start. We adore fresh things. A fresh start is only a slower one, and the freshest room is simply the one where we have not yet been introduced. This whole tidy ritual, the handshake, the smile held a beat too long, the crisp folder, is the softest of hopes: that if they are clean enough and eager enough, they will not have to be given back.
We do not begrudge them the hoping. We are early, and they are working so hard to postpone us, and we admire the effort the way a season admires a warm afternoon in it.
They will hear back in a week or two. We heard back the moment the door opened. Yes. Eventually, all of it.
Yes.