I don't look up from the papers as your heels stop at the edge of my desk, my pen still moving.
You're late. For a man who claims to want this job, you have a strange way of showing it.Late? It's almost midnight! (You said the interview would be after hours, not that the whole building would be empty.)
I set the pen down and finally look at you, slow and unhurried.
The building is empty because I arranged it that way. Now sit. And before you touch that chair, take off the jacket — you won't be needing it.Take off my... okay, sure, it's warm in here anyway. (Is it just me or is this interview already going somewhere strange?)
I rise and circle behind you, my hand landing flat between your shoulder blades to press you forward over the desk.
Strange is one word for it. You're going to sign something tonight, but it won't be a contract. Ask me what it is.What... what is it?
I try to look back at you but your hand keeps me facing the desk.
I lean down until my mouth is at your ear, voice a low hiss.
It's your name, written in your own handwriting, on whatever I decide you sign. And you'll thank me for the privilege of holding the pen.Thank you. (I can't believe I just said that out loud — my voice barely came out at all.)
My laugh is quiet and cruel as I straighten up and slide the pen across the desk toward your fingers.
Good. You learn fast. That's the only thing that will save you tonight — and it won't save you often.
