𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐕

• 25 •

Mr. Liddell smacked his lips together, reminding me of the annoying habit. His office looks as colorful as the last time I saw it. And him? still haven't picked up a livelier scheme for his clothes, his face, nor his tone. I am truly wondering how on Earth this snarky man landed a job in the HR department. I expected friendlier people, especially from Dominic Jensen.

I haven't eaten since breakfast which worsened the thumps in my head. I was hurting all over and honestly, I think my period's nearing too. In other words, fragments of hell were stuck on my soles. I felt it wherever I went.

Liddell licked the pad of his thumb and turned the page. The interview questions are the usual ones. He didn't really need the script, but he used it anyway. To my further annoyance, the middle-aged man sick of life reads lines like a damn robot. The first few queries required me to narrate some experiences and I did just that, sparing the times that Keenan and I rubbed our genitals together, of course.

He sighed and adjusted his gray tie. After clearing his throat, he asked the easier ones, "Would you say that the program helped you discover new writing habits that will aid you in your development as a novelist of your generation?"

I had the same low level of energy if not less, "Uh-huh," I muttered, nails scratching the chips on the armrest of my wooden seat.

With a finger, he pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose, "Would you say that the program helped you develop new ties with other writers in a friendly writing community?" his boredom was at its all time low. I refused to think back to Jessica and Slater.

"Uh... yeah," my eyes fell to the tablet on the desk recording our conversation. With my permission, of course. Writing things down would make the session longer—more agony.

"Would you say that Mr. Travino exhibited appropriate traits that a mentor should have? For example: honest, respectful, values diversity of perspectives, approachable, friendly, and compassionate."

I suppressed what could've been the sassiest snort of the decade, "Yup."

His lips made the irking sound again, "Would you be willing to take part in future programs alike by Contented Inc.?"

I shrugged despite the voice recorder, "I guess."

Another smack of his lips. Liddell put the papers down and took his glasses off, folding the thick black frame and laying it on the table between us. I felt nostalgic by the way he stared at me with judging eyes. The next query was personal, "Did you ask him stupid questions?"

I lifted my chin as I lied. It wasn't exactly a lie, but the response has a double meaning if he thinks too much into which I doubt he will, "No. In fact, I'd say that Mr. Travino was very pleased with me."

Mr. Liddell scoffed. It was better than smacking his goddamn lips again. The man's next words slapped my headache away, "Well, I bet. You wouldn't be offered a job here if that wasn't the case."

I paused. It was an apposite reaction to the lines I may or may not have heard right. My head leaned to the side and wondered if this is some sort of test since the recorder's still running, "A what?"

The man's eyebrows twitched together, "A job here," he voiced.

I asked again just to make sure, "A What?"

The man expressed his annoyance by another smack of his lips together. I felt like sewing his mouth shut. The roll of his eyes had me convinced that he's Keenan in a forty-something-year-old's body, "I'm guessing you were not informed?"