Love is dreadful.      Love is hopeless.       Love is ... murder.
Love only results in excruciating pain and disheartening despondency.
Love stripped her from my life. Love deprived me of my childhood.
Gazing at my mothers photograph, these words permeate my mind. How this attachment to another destroyed the very being I crave to partake in life’s experiences, and because of it, she was unable to attend my high school graduation and nonexistent now.
No speeches of thrilled excitement on my accomplishments ... what life might entail ... explanations on preparations for upcoming interviews or bestowing relationship advice when unsolicited. Just a vast emptiness where the thumping organ below my ribcage used to reside.
I will NEVER allow my heart to feel affection for another, it’s futile. It will only result in my inevitable agony and the atrocious eradication of my very existence.
I refuse to end up like you.
Love will be the literal annihilation of me.
I liberate a lung filled sigh with a heavy heart, stifled waterlogged eyes, clearing the mass wedge in my throat, carefully stowing her picture in the sleeve of my wallet, straightening my cap, smoothing my gown, preparing for another Pomp and Circumstance deprived of her.

Finally done with college, graduated a week ago and ready to take on the world. Feeling a little deflated, but just a little, three interviews down but no one desires to hire a newbie fresh out of college.
Experience... experience is all they crave but how do I acquire experience if employers refuse to hire those who lack it. This system is wreaked, I haven’t the slightest idea how to become more marketable as an inexperienced, educated graduate in the business finance world.
Conceding is not an option, I worked too hard to acquire my degree to give up now. The headaches, the sleepless night, grueling papers, mid-terms, finals... oh no world, I’m a force to be reckoned with and you will feel my wrath. I refuse to abandon my future.
Adorning my best interview outfit, a black pencil skirt with mermaid ruffles cascade down the back with the matching mermaid jacket along with my angel sleeve white shirt which has an outline of beige to match my beige shoes and black purse to retain my resume and cover letter.
The drive to the interview is fairly short, thirty minutes in traffic. I’m ecstatic I’ve arrived early, it gives me leeway to flush out the flutters in my stomach.
Thankfully, the building where my interview will be held has a parking garage which saves me time on the impossible search for parking in Manhattan. My interview will be held at Cross Enterprises, the worlds best company for businesses in trouble. A place I would actually feel proud to be a part of.
Placing my gear into park, I shut off my car, taking notice of the funny noise that emanates from the hood. Shrugging my shoulders, now is not the time, I have 30 mins to get appear before my interviewer but I require my morning tea. There was a little shop just before the garage, I’ll make my way there before I endeavor on my fourth interview.
Entering the coffee shop I’m astounded by the elegance. No expense was spared, I’m a little taken aback by all of the décor. I view marble tabletops of black, white and grey with shiny chairs decorated with grey material that mimic little pillows of heaven to sit on. Black, white and grey art line the walls. Even the paint seems expensive. My mind reels with the thought of how much a cup of tea may set me back.
I’m greeted by the warmest welcome, asking me what I would like to order. Her smile is perfect, teeth straight, white, accentuating her perfect check bones and her beautiful soft brown eyes which leads me to her perfect hair set in a bun resting atop her head. This woman is model worthy, why is she wasting her time working here? I wonder if she knows just how beautiful she really is.
Clearing her throat to catch my attention, I was so busy cataloging her look that I hadn’t answered her. With remorse, I exclaim, “I’m sorry, I’ll have a medium green tea with raw honey please. By the way, you have beautiful eyes. They remind me of my mother.”
The nice girl grants me a warm smile, nods her head at me as I drift off in memories of my mother, shaking my head back and forth with animation to not stir up any emotions, right now is not the time for that. I’ve withheld my tears for this long, another day won’t kill me.
My tea is ready in the blink of an eye, she reappears at the counter, “That will be five dollars and sixty-two cents.” I rummage in my huge black pursed, handing her exact change, not as bad as I thought given the look of the place.
I scan for a clean, empty table, noticing one in the corner, taking note these cushions really are like sitting on fluffy pillow of heaven as I had assumed. It’s like floating on a fluffy cloud, my cheeks are well cushioned and comforted.
I gaze around the shop, admiring the art on the wall in front of me. It has splashes of black, grey and white paint, seems as though it was just thrown together but in a way to stir up emotion.
I extract my wallet, exhaling a deep breath, as I withdraw her picture, craving she was here to wish me well, to settle my nerves before this interview. It’s a picture of my mother and I, how much we look alike is astounding. I definitely have her eyes, both shape and color, her smile and her luscious hair.
I remember the day it was taken, like it was yesterday, it was just a week before the “accident.” We were happy that day, her smile could light up a room, it always did, for me anyway. An ache in my chest arises,  she’s no longer in existence but I’ve held on to the notion that her love guides me each day.
The sting of tears well up in my eyes, a knot in my stomach along with a lump in my throat, suggesting it’s time to pack away the memories to prepare for this interview.
Finishing my green tea, I rise from the table walking over to the garbage, discarding my cup. I beeline for the bathroom, one final once over before I head upstairs and knock this interview out of the park.
I lock the door behind me, looking in the mirror, hair is nicely curled, check, make-up still intact, check, but my lipstick needs another application with an added layer of lip gloss.
One final gaze into the mirror, I’m satisfied with the lady staring back at me. I put my lipstick and lip gloss back in my bag, unlock the door and head to conquer this interaction.
Walking, I ensure I put my phone back in my bag along with checking I hadn’t crinkle my resume and cover letter. I raise my head to be met by a solid mass, a hard chest that has just turned around, colliding.
Coffee dances in the air, as if in slow motion, my body cascades to met the floor. A hand extends to stop my fall, catching my arm, upon connection, a jolt of electricity sparks my nerves to life.
The coffee assaults me, landing on my outfit, stains everywhere, stinging my skin. In disbelief, I peer at the hand grasping my arm, noticing the tattoos that dance across the skin, intriguing me. Shaking my head, I brush it off, my interview is in 10 minutes.
Nervousness and anxiety kick in, what am I going to do now?! Rolling my eyes over my clothing, unable to comprehend a mumbled voice, focusing solely on my next action about this interview now that I am laced in coffee.
How am I supposed to conference reeking of coffee, seeming as if I bathed in it? My flaming orbs focus on the person in front of me, opening my mouth to release my outrage.
“Don’t you look where you’re walking? Especially with hot coffee in your hand. Look at my outfit! You ruined it! You jerk!”
He opens his mouth to speak, unwilling to hear any excuses, my hand lifts up to stop him. “I have an interview and I can’t be bothered by you right now. I have to try and get this all cleaned up,” I wave my hands over my body, observing you can see right through my white shirt.
Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, I turn around on the balls of my feet, stalk back to the bathroom trying my best to clean up this disaster. Taking my shirt off with haste, I turn on the hot water, placing the coffee stained shirt under the spout, rubbing, hoping the stain disappears from my shirt. Damn it! I love this shirt, it’s one of my favorites.
I rub the shirt with vigor, praying the stain is gone, once done, I clutch the shirt, raising it to the light. Well, it’s mostly removed but the wet spot and coffee ring are clearly visible. Damn it, what am I going to do now!
Ruffling through insane thoughts, I finalize on wearing it backwards, placing the jacket over it so so the stain is hidden. I glance in the mirror, not great but not bad either, this will have to do given the circumstances.
I extend my arm, reaching for my purse to spray some perfume to cover the coffee smell when realization hits me; I dropped my purse. How could I be so absent-minded, being so flustered I abandoned my purse.
In a distressed frenzy, I scamper out to view the tattooed hand on the handles of my purse, holding it out for me, a toothy grin smeared across his face. Snatching the purse, a sarcastic “Thank you,” seeps from my lips as I roll my eyes, turning to make my exit.
“You’re welcome,” fills my ears with a snicker, as if this is something to guffaw at. Pausing to face him, “You think this is a laughing matter? I have an important meeting, reek of coffee and have stains on my clothing. How am I supposed to acquire a job looking disheveled, with the funk of coffee wafting in the air? Throwing my hands in the air, I gesture to my ruined ensemble.
His eyes roam over my body, up and down, evoking this burning feeling in the pit of my stomach. What the hell was that?
“What’s your name? You’ll be receiving my bills when I’m rejected from this opportunity thanks to your obliviousness?”
He grins with a devilish curve of the lips, “Alexander Napoleon.”
Confused, eyebrows unifying, eyes narrowing, I shake my head in disbelief. For the first time since our encounter, I’m able to examine his features. His eyes are the lightest shade of grey. The most entrancing hues I’ve ever seen. They’re like spheres of storm clouds on a rainy day waiting to explode into a tsunami, but that chaos doesn’t reach his magnificently sculpted face.
I exhale a breath in an attempt to control my anger when he probes, “Do you always speak to people in this manner that you’ve only just met?”
His question snaps me out of my trance, “Only when its warranted! What? Are you some sort of special human being where your careless actions didn’t justify such a reaction?” I lash out in a moment of heated rage, feeling the heat rise from my neck.
He replies, “Most people remained tight lipped with me. They would never react as you did.”
“Well I’m not most people and your negligence may have cost my my job. It was sanctioned!” Twisting on the balls of my feet, I stalk away as he attempts to articulate.
Checking my cell phone, I view in distress, two minutes... two minutes to make it to my interview. Panic ravages my nerves, impatiently pushing the button for the elevator to arrive as if that make it appear with haste. A habit I have witnessed numerous times, acknowledging it’s of no use and here I am displaying the same asinine behavior.
Considering going up the stairs, 15 flights will kill me, causing me to look and smell worse than I already do.
The door finally separate, I look up, impatiently waiting for everyone to exit so I can strive to be on time. A man slides in between the doors before they shut, blocking the buttons. His voice fills the atmosphere, “What floor?” Without veering my way.
The voice, oh that voice! It’s him! I spew before a rationale thought formulate, “What! Are you following me now?” He repeats with a wolfish grin, “What floor?”
Succumbing to his relentlessness , throwing my hands in the air, shaking my head, I really don’t have time for this, “Fifteen and wipe that smirk off your face, this isn’t a laughing matter!” Pressing fifteen, he inquires, “What are you interviewing for?”
Cognizant of my situation for the next 15 floors, I respond with reluctance, “Financial Adviser.” Twisting with the slightest movement, lifting an eyebrow, the judgement oozes from his demeanor.
“What? Can I not be good with numbers?”
Rolling my eyes, I shake him off, focusing on myself mentally to acquire this new position, making the best impression I can, after the morning I’ve had.
The doors finally detach, zooming past him, without another word to the man with the hand tattoos and stormy light grey eyes. I peer back to view the edges of his lips curl as the doors met again.

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