Kiss me under the Hollywood sign

Chapter 3

Six days had passed since my interview at Silver Screen Studios, and the silence was deafening. No call, no email, not even a carrier pigeon with a cryptic message tied to its leg - and believe me, I've been keeping an eye out the window hoping to spot one. Our kitchen faces out onto a narrow side street, just wide enough for one car to pass at a time if they squeeze by sidelong like a baseball sliding into home plate. Across the way is an elderly neighbor's house, every window crammed with about 47 different knickknacks on display. I'm convinced if a pigeon did come by with a note, one of those tchotchkes would fall off its perch and shatter on the pavement in shock.

My initial hope had dwindled, replaced by a gnawing sense of disappointment and the unpleasant realization that I'd finished the last of the Oreos- and still feeling hungry. Sitting at the kitchen counter, which may as well have been carved from the same lump of faded Formica as the rest of the cabinets, I stared at my phone, willing it to light up with a notification. But the cracked screen remained stubbornly blank, its darkness mocking my anticipation like the Mona Lisa's smile. Just then, a garbage truck rumbled down the street, its gears grinding like the sound of shattering dreams. I sighed. Maybe it was time to update the resume with a new career path - something more realistic, like assembling Christmas lights or organizing sock drawers( of course I am kidding).

"Maybe I should just forget about it," I mumbled to myself, pushing the phone away.

Distracting myself seemed like the best course of action. Grabbing a cookbook, I flipped through the pages, searching for a recipe that would soothe my disappointment and fill my empty stomach.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was Sarah.

"Hey, Em," her voice crackled through the receiver. "Just taking a quick break between takes. How's the job hunt going?"

"Uneventful," I admitted, forcing a smile.

"No news from Silver Screen Studios?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Not a peep," I sighed. "Maybe the coffee stain was a dealbreaker."

"Don't be silly," Sarah chimed in. "They'd be fools to overlook your talent just because of a little wardrobe malfunction."

"Easy for you to say," I grumbled. "You're not the one with a permanent coffee stain on your interview outfit."

"Maybe it'll be your lucky charm," she said with a chuckle. "Think of it as a conversation starter, a way to stand out from the crowd."

Her optimism was contagious, even if a little forced.

"Maybe you're right," I conceded. "Besides, dwelling on it won't change anything. Right now, I need some serious comfort food therapy."

"Sounds like a plan," Sarah agreed. "Are you making dinner? I'll be grabbing something light at the set, but I should be home by dinner."

"Homemade mac and cheese is on the menu," I declared. "Come hungry."

We hung up, and I set about gathering the ingredients for my culinary masterpiece. As I chopped vegetables, I admired the sad state of our kitchen - chipped countertops, walls the color of sour cream, and a faucet that dripped like the neighbor's wheezy pug. The rhythmic sounds of my knife hitting the cutting board provided the soundtrack for my anxious thoughts. Cooking had always been like meditation for me, a way to zone out and imagine I was on some Food Network show, except hopefully with better kitchen décor.

As I dumped the sticky macaroni into a boiling pot of water, I thought back to my interview with Mr. Hunter earlier that week. What was it about me that didn't click? My limp hair? My lack of pop culture knowledge? The coffee stain on my only pretty blouse?