Archie and me
A lot has passed since my last post, and my cat's death. There's a new meower in the house. Archie. A red head pussycat, named after the comedic Archie of my childhood, and just as clumsy and good natured. I'm his Betty and his Veronica. As I type, he's passed out on my shoulder, small white paws in my hair, his favourite position. There's something very comforting about a warm furry little guy by my side again.
This morning, as the city slept, I chewed a bit of breakfast, swallowed some coffee and worried. Job interviews always put me on edge. Trying to find a shirt that isn't wrinkled. Finding an unravelling hem at the last minute, quickly painting my toenails while smoking a cig. It's always the same. Same fitted skirt, heels, same long sleeves hiding same scars. The job-interview uniform.
I'm notoriously unpunctual for everything. But not job interviews. I pulled in 15 minutes early and checked my lipstick. Thanks to the web, I'd already seen what the man I was meeting would look like. Forties, cocky, black-hair and big-teeth. I recognized him immediately.
The agency was like a dark early 90s cave, I couldn't do my usual "nice place you've got here". He led me into a small meeting room with mismatched bad art. I showed him my work, he showed me his. They're semi-creative with bad design, but they pay well. Enough to keep Archie in cat biscuits at least. I'm slowly gathering freelance clients. There aren't any full time jobs. Not one. I have three weeks left before my last day at work. The ad agency I work for, like so many, is going under.
It's scary, but it will all work out. Life has been too predictable for too long,