(no subject)
Pausing on the sidewalk, I crane my neck up to take in the entirety of the skyscraper in front of me. The New Metropolis headquarters of Queen Industries, aptly named. What was I doing here? This wasn't the place for a girl like me. Suddenly, I had the urge to turn around and run back to New Mexico... no. I couldn't go back to Roswell. Not now, not ever.
This was my life now.
And, well, it's not exactly advancing my singing career, but bills need to be paid. And when I saw the ad in the newspaper - small, subtle - looking for a personal assistant for the CEO of Queen Industries, something inside said this is it. It sounded a little bit like Liz. So I'd applied, stayed up all night composing a resume and the next morning, the phone rang. It was like a freaking miracle or something.
Only now, standing here, I'm not so sure.
Come on, Maria! Get a grip. I can do this. I got a call back. They wouldn't have bothered if I was completely hopeless. I can - have to - do this, I can prove to everyone that I can manage myself, that I'm more than a waitress and an occasional lounge singer. This is good. This could be great.
I straighten my little pinstriped blazer (with a matching skirt, perfect office-drone attire), take a deep breath and step inside.
The front desk girl - I want that job! - quickly ushers me upstairs, and I spend the entire elevator ride with smartly-dressed lawyer-types in expensive suits that smell like subtle cologne, leather and money, trying not to wring my hands. As the doors ping and open, I smooth back my hair (I should've braided it, this makes me look younger) and step through to the office. A woman sitting behind a desk eyes me carefully.
"Hi," I say, hearing my voice pathetically quiet. Try again. "I'm Maria Deluca."
This was my life now.
And, well, it's not exactly advancing my singing career, but bills need to be paid. And when I saw the ad in the newspaper - small, subtle - looking for a personal assistant for the CEO of Queen Industries, something inside said this is it. It sounded a little bit like Liz. So I'd applied, stayed up all night composing a resume and the next morning, the phone rang. It was like a freaking miracle or something.
Only now, standing here, I'm not so sure.
Come on, Maria! Get a grip. I can do this. I got a call back. They wouldn't have bothered if I was completely hopeless. I can - have to - do this, I can prove to everyone that I can manage myself, that I'm more than a waitress and an occasional lounge singer. This is good. This could be great.
I straighten my little pinstriped blazer (with a matching skirt, perfect office-drone attire), take a deep breath and step inside.
The front desk girl - I want that job! - quickly ushers me upstairs, and I spend the entire elevator ride with smartly-dressed lawyer-types in expensive suits that smell like subtle cologne, leather and money, trying not to wring my hands. As the doors ping and open, I smooth back my hair (I should've braided it, this makes me look younger) and step through to the office. A woman sitting behind a desk eyes me carefully.
"Hi," I say, hearing my voice pathetically quiet. Try again. "I'm Maria Deluca."