The Waiting Room

The waiting room was still and quiet except for the monotonous tick of the black clock hanging on the wall. As I get ready for my job interview for the second time, butterflies fill my stomach as I glance persistently at the time on the clock.

My mother always said to either stare at the roof or look down at people’s feet to not even think about my interview. Interview shoes; always classy. Everyone had a nice pair of classy, polished shoes. But one, in particular, stood out to me. It was the Black Richmond Calf leather shoes by Charles Tyrwhitt. It was of the highest value and looked very posh.

I realised that it was not only I that was nervous. A man beside me was fidgeting with the watch strapped on his right hand wrist. A lady sitting directly opposite was looking around, tapping the heels of her elegant ferragamo shoes, which was very deer in cost, revealing her pale feet covered with skin colour tights. Don’t ask how I know all this detail. I was pretty much raised with four sisters who were very, should I say, fashionable, in a sense.

As I watched the other applicants for this job, my heartbeat slowed down and I felt a sense of relief. I took my phone out and realised that I had missed four calls from my mother, probably to wish me luck for my new job. As I was about to redial and call my mother, a young gentleman opened the glass door, that had his name, Harvey Specter, neatly printed on it. Every stride he took revealed his confidence. His hair was slicked back and he had an irresistible smile. And his suit. It looked so much similar to the one I was wearing. However, the one thing that did catch my attention was that his new polished shoe had been a little damaged, in particular, his right shoe. He caught me staring at his shoes and grinned at me.