The Interview


“And your prognosis?” She leaned back, eyes scrutinized the male across the desk.

“Um,” he fidgeted with his wedding ring, “I…”

“At this rate, I’m won’t be getting my fifteen minutes of quality time.” Arms crossed over her chest tilting her head. Eyes scanned the room with a huff of disdain. “Tick-Tock.”

His fingers tugged at his too-tight collar. “Well, the reports and our tests-”

“Prove, what?” Her leg crossed over the knee, her stiletto’s heel glinted like a black daggers tip.

His mouth went dry, unable to swallow. “Um, well if you look at-”

“Don’t want to look at images I can find at home. I’m here for a report. Your verbal presentation. Not a show and tell lesson. I want to know strengths. Weaknesses.” She shifted in her seat. “These chairs are so uncomfortable.”

“I can get you another one?”

“And waste my fifteen minute time slot. Listen, Mr,” checking her wrist watch. “I want to know the basics. Simple –failure or pass? Brain scientist or truck driver.”

“No one fails Grade three and your son’s doing well.” Relieved to see her smile, he palmed the sweat from his brow. “I hate parent teacher interviews.”


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