AFTER Hero

I would appreciate feedback on this chapter! I'm a little doubtful, but I wanted to give you more information on how Livia is feeling internally.

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I want to improve as a writer and story teller. Most importantly, I want to make you laugh, smile, cry, get angry, etc. . .🙃I hope, at the very least, I get you to feel something!

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My hand slipped noisily against the arm chair and my ring clattered. I clenched my lip in distress when Carl poked his head up from the desktop computer. The nape of my neck felt damp with anxiety-sweat. The computer he scrolled through had a dark sheen over it to block out the Nosy Nancy's of the world. The Job Center, early this morning, felt like a bank—very nearly, a fish bowl. High arched walls, clean and spacious, echoey like a storage vault. I didn't like it one bit. I bet, even Carl's steady, loud pen clicking beat could be heard by the man with the in-canal hearing aid across the room.

I smoothed out my glittery speckled tights and clicked the heel of my pointy flats, which were impeccably encrusted with dainty beads around my ankles. My dress billowed down my waist in velvet navy with a line of gold buttons flowing down the column of my breasts, each the size and roundness of a currency coin. I felt fashionable and sophisticated today, but Carl thought otherwise. He looked at me as if I were a pinup sailor girl here to offer up free ice cold Bahama Mamas to the crowd.

I shifted my eyes to the clients waiting in a row of padded chairs each flipping through a London magazine, sipping fresh cumber water, and tapping their feet impatiently. A woman in a polka dot pea coat sifted through the magazine I was skimming earlier. Paul Smith, a British fashion designer's intake on love, "It's all about goosebumps." He claimed.

Goosebumps - yes. . .but it's much more than that Paul.

Fashion design? Would that be fun?

"You have to hold a degree, plus there are no design opportunities currently. Design, eh, the closest to design I have. . ." Carl clicked repeatedly, rubbing the dark scruff on his chin.

In shame, I glance away to hide the burn in my cheeks. I didn't realize I was speaking my thoughts out loud!

As our meeting dragged on, the Job Center continued to fill up with a crowd of mismatched and out of place women and men. Some looked slightly dazed and too nervous - the way I suppose I looked as I chewed my lip and drew invisible designs on the sparkly seams of my tights. The rest of the people looked bored, uninterested as if they've been here too many times. I hope I don't become one of the several blank faces in here. It better be a one and done for me.

I watch closely as Carl scans the hidden screen for further employment, and his eyes light up.
"Drama substitute?"

I arch an eyebrow, frowning, "Definite no. I like collaging." I inform him, and his face drops into a scowl. So judgemental he is.
It's obvious his lunch hour is around the corner, or he was paid by client. . . Either way, he too wanted our time together to be brief and straightforward.

"Lets see then." He hummed the tune of "Love me tender" quite horribly and off key, clicked his tongue. I kept trying to read each expression on his face turning from frustrated, to hopeless, to optimistic.

"No collaging, but here, an opening for an art studio. Faculty instructor. It's three blocks from your address, and the bus runs through there."

"Yes. That's perfect." I jump up from my chair.