Blueprint

P2 - Pendulum

My breath was forced steady. Naturally it would have been pushing and pulling my chest in a profound heave, yet I was consumed with the effort to appear stable. My nervousness and the usual serene softness to my voice draw forth the way I seem so out of place among the expensive, dark suits and somber.

The firm was on a the third floor of a creamy cemented, old-classic building very close to the capital of Washington D.C, where Georgetown University is located. I thought the fact that it was so close to campus was super convenient and all the more reason to join the internship.

"Eight fucking hours. I'm done with this pro-bono shit," I hear a male, gruff voice snicker, originating from a figure standing outside of an official's door. As I walk by the short, broad, and elderly man, his focus remains on his phone call, leather briefcase settled on the floor by his foot, thick hand grasping the thin cellular device to his ear.

I let my eyes trail up the cream glazed, tiled floors towards the deep mahogany furniture and glass fixtures. Light poured through every wide, immaculately pristine glass window. It was an expensively decorated firm. No doubt they make enough paper, one might believe they own a printing press for currency.

A cooled eyed, black haired woman sits at a rounded white desk, circling in her rolling desk chair before swiveling around to face my approaching figure. Straightening a thick blend of manila files in her hands, she glances up to make eye contact. Disinterested, and deep-set eyes narrow, her chilled irises trailing me before making eye contact. A wireless headset at her right ear sparks my interest momentarily, probably a fancy Bluetooth. Her thin, glossed lips purse, her hooded eyes glancing quickly at the desktop screen in front of her — fingertips clicking against the separate keyboard.

My lips part in an attempt to speak, inhaling to prepare myself to engage in what should be a brief interaction. "Hi...Where is the internship orientation being held?" I ask gently, leaning only slightly into the white, smooth, glossy surface of the rounded front desk.

Her name tag reads Isabel. Distracted eyes narrow at her glowing screen, pupils reflectively producing the same light from the desktop. "The sign that says 'welcome, interns' in big, bold blue letters behind me...that's where," her monotonous voice replies, her tone dry and unresponsive to the hospitality that initially softened my voice.

"Oh," I blink, moving away from Isabel's desk with pressed lips and flushing cheeks, averting my eyes towards the big sign that clearly denotes the room in use for the chosen interns. I conservatively cross my arms over my chest, distancing myself from Isabel, who is still typing away at her keyboard with little interest as to what I'm doing. Cowering into my baggy, too many sizes up white button up, I walk towards the glass double doors.

Inside is a group of maybe five college students. All dressed in properly fitted suits or skirts, crisp and clean, neat and expensive. Students who have put in a great deal of thought into their attire. Their eyes follow me briefly before I manage to scurry into the seat furthest from the group, their chatting continuing despite my temporary interruption. Though I notice the way a light haired intern snorts at the sight of me and a blonde raises her eyebrows. I'm embarrassed.

My clothes are less than up to par, baggy shirt and a skirt that was past my knees, hiding away my figure in the most unflattering fashion. My frizzy, curly hair was tied up into a messy bun, strands falling in various places. No makeup. And the women around me wore it flawlessly, enhancing their looks with no imperfections. I sigh softly and hope that the day is over quickly, and that I don't have to speak to anyone for more than five minutes so they don't take into account how pitiful I look.

I stare at nothing in particular when the glass doors open, a voice calling, "Hello, interns. My name is George Masik, but you guys, since I'm all about cutting to the chase, can call me by my first name, Georgie, G — whatever. Never call me mister, though. That's...I'm forty seven, but please, don't remind me."