It was my fourth job interview this week, and they had all ended the same way. Like flakes of paint, the colours were peeling away from him as I watched. At first it had been just a spot on his tie, this otherwise spotlessly clean and correct HR guy. Now his entire tie, butterfly patterns and all, was just a dirty grey strip down his chest. His white shirt, too, is flecked with grey spots. I presume there's some on his pants, too. Some of the colour is falling on his desk in front of him, the rest is all on the floor. I can feel it there.
He's talking to me. He has perfect English, the Queen's own words flowing out of his mouth, in my left ear, and out the right.
"Miss Chevlin, are you quite alright?"
I should probably reply. Not that it matters; he'll be completely gone, soon.
"Oh. Uh, sorry sir, I was just uh, daydreaming," I tell him, realising too late that it's not the best thing to say to the man who's whim would control whether I would get the job or not. "I mean