Searching Lucas

Could it be that I would perish in 50 days?

His name stared back from the header of the notepad: Joaquin Sheppard. Underneath, the questions I had carefully calculated way before everything—the diagnosis, the 50 days.

The interview was scheduled at The Ritz Carlton in Charlotte, on the penthouse floor.

Yesterday I called Louise to join me on a late-night shopping spree. Louise bickered at me for hanging up on her face the evening Diana crashed by. But she quickly got over it, and we both had fun stopping at the designer stores. I'd spent money on an expensive brown blazer, a checkered blouse, a white silk tie for irony, and a dark grey office pantsuit—the cheapest item on the cart—that I'll wear only once in a lifetime.

I wore red matte lipstick and some blush to cover the blemishes. I had pulled my hair into a sleek, low bun. Mom would have loved seeing her daughter in this conservative, chic ensemble. Louise would have totally judged me, comparing my outfit to a constipated bank worker.

My body trembled mildly, a craving for nicotine way before I reached for the phone book. I had taken one quick drag before putting on the uniform, doused it with a few splashes of perfume, some tropical elegance that came in an amber, voluptuous-shaped bottle you squeeze at the top. I had dialed a cab to the city, thinking it would appeal to me better if the girl about to interview superstar Joaquin Sheppard didn't arrive at the lot in a worn-out Suzuki Katana, disrupting the elegance aura.

According to Forbes magazine, the hotel has a vast swimming pool, a lounge room with noir, sleek chairs, rows of liquor, candelabras, and bedrooms with beds more expensive than my rent. I clipped the article on the fridge before leaving, thinking it mattered.

As the vehicle approached the spot to drop visitors, I tossed the cab fare and an extra forty bucks for the driver to open the door for me for a good, slapstick, ironic measure. The rearview mirror showed me my reflection—what was supposed to be myself. I didn't look like a woman in her early twenties.

Could it be the makeup?

Or could it be that I would perish in 50 days?

As intended, the friendly Arab driver pulled at the curb, slammed the emergency brake, came rushing to the side, and opened the door. A few people stared. Their eyes met with intrigue and curiosity. They wondered about the woman in the blazer, who exuded authority. It was as though they'd seen some B-list celebrity exit this strange, common taxi.

"My lady," The Arab driver extended his hand with a friendly smile. He was enjoying this as much as I did.

I smiled and grabbed his hand back, proud of myself for making this man's day with my wit, wishing I could toy with people's emotions in a positive, influential way. He released me near the tall glass doors, and one of the bellmen opened the door at my arrival with a good afternoon, miss.

I whispered a sheepish hello as I let myself in, basking in the sudden atmosphere: the reek of money, expensive perfume, the marbled rose gold floors, the sleek white columns, the mahogany on the reception desk, the men in suits, the women in dresses and stacked hairdos, and the classical music that played somewhere. There were eight elevators to the side of the reception desk, goldplated, with a bellman on each, ready to press the buttons. People walked unhurriedly back and forth, some with elongated necks and chins stacked high.

"How may I help you, miss?" Even the girl who attended the place had a distinguished elegance. Not gorgeous or sexy. Distinguished. Hair nicely combed to a short cut, a slick face, and makeup that both enhanced and softened her green eyes.

"Hi, I'm here for the interview with Joaquin Sheppard."

"For what magazine?"

Shoot, I didn't think that one through.