The sound of my heels clicking across pavement has always brought me satisfaction. It’s as if words are not needed; as if I can dominate the road I walk with 2 extra inches of height. I feel like I should toss my hair dramatically, or something equally as sexy. Put me in a pair of heels and I’m a goddess; all-woman. My destination is a hotel with some Spanish name. The sign only reads “NO” because ‘vacancy’ has burned out. I find this to be hilarious, but bite my lip and try to remain composed. They could be watching through the window, eyeing my every move. I straighten my back and hold my head high, picturing eyes behind glass following my every step. I know, it sounds paranoid, but this is a big moment for me. I could be getting a job this very day. Being unemployed for half a year, I am to the point of throwing myself down on my knees and begging whoever I set my eyes upon, kissing their feet. Okay, that’s a tad too excessive, but that’s how desperate I am. When I reach the hotel doors, they open for me and I have a brief Jedi moment. I go up to the counter and flash my brightest smile and the lady directs me to a conference room at the end of a poorly-lit hall. I creep around the door, peeking in as I hear voices discussing something obviously important together; I can tell by their business-like tones and the words they are using, such as ‘management’ and ‘position.’ I wipe away invisible dog hair from my shirt out of habit and approach the group of 3 people, all in their mid-twenties. “Hello, is this the right room for Katrina’s Italian Dining?” I ask politely. They welcome me in and the one girl in the group hands me an application and pen. I have never been to these hiring meetings before, but it looks promising. I’m writing my name when I hear a male voice at the doorway. I don’t look up but I can see him out of the corner of my eye, filling out the same application as I am. I get panicky and rush, wanting to get an interview first so I can leave sooner. As I’m signing my signature on the back page, perfectly-manicured nails take my application from my hands. I look up at the person responsible, a lady with far too much make-up that had to be no more than 35. After an antagonizing 5 minutes of her reviewing my application, she looks me up and down and says, “You’re hired.” I jump a little, and the guy next to me looks disappointed and envious, or perhaps a combination of both. “Wait, wait…what?” I ask, but she’s turned to the boy now. She looks over his application just as carefully, gives him the look-over, then, “You’re not.” Just as quickly as she appeared, she disappears with a flounce of her skirt, my application in her hand. The three original members of the room approach me and start talking about dates and orientation and the workings of my new job. I can’t help but pity the boy, still sitting there, sullenly. They turn to him and apologize, “Sorry, she only puts women on her wait-staff, Darren” the girl says, “She says girls are more friendly.” How they know each other is beyond my knowledge, but this has always been a small town, so pretty much everyone is connected somehow through family or friends.