Steeling naïveté

A dark desk on a floor of ancient books, their dusty spines facing the cracked ceiling above. The distant hum of industrial fans outside the room makes her think of humid classrooms. An aroma of foreign accents floats in the air and she feels strange, light; lost.

The interview went quick; she felt like a mechanical device, a robot of sorts, in these interviews. She hated the process of selling herself; she never quite worked out how.
And being one of many hunting vultures added substantially to her distaste of the process. Duplicity hung in the air like the hideously painted canvases hung on the navy blue walls.
Approval is what she craved.
The funny thing about approval: you want it, you need it; and you despise it. You can say you don’t until you’re blue in the face but everyone knows you’re only good if someone other than yourself thinks so.
Why don’t we trust ourselves? Why do we value a stranger’s thoughts above our own?
She hated the process but she wanted to be there, at least, she thought she did and that’s the same.
Santa Montefiore.
Santa was nothing like her name would suggest. She was not overweight, or gray or a guy. She was a frail looking woman, formless and untrained, with a mass of melted milk chocolate coloured hair and cadaverous skin. She had thin lips like somebody stern and with her arms limp at her sides she began the enduring decent back to her car.
This had been just another one of the many interviews she had been the guest star of for the past 23 days. She was spent; exhaustion personified.
She glanced into her rear-view mirror and almost gasped at the sight of the tenderfoot, old woman gazing back at her with listless eyes.

He wandered down the corridors, through passage ways and doors off their hinges, the smell of fresh varnish surrounding, entering him.
His pulse had not slowed to a normal beat per minute since he had opened his eyes, eyes which had hung at half mast for the past three days.
He was nervous; fidgety and overwrought. This position, which had miraculously been made accessible to him recently, had been his dream since graduation and now he had the chance to impress and excite the head honcho of the company.
His hands were moist with human steam and his spindly knees felt unsteady; weak. This was it.
A young secretary with cherry hair and bloodshot eyes led him to the unbalanced wooden door; she knocked.
A hoarse voice from inside grumbled something and she turned and gave Xavier a nod and started walking back to her desk.
Xavier took a rooted breath and entered.
Xavier Kasischke.

Santa and Xavier were two different people vying for the same position, the same life: a peculiar marriage between difference and similarity.

The young secretary with the honey sweet voice called a day later and Santa almost missed the call. Purposefully. It was, after all, the part she hated most about job hunting. The call.
They requested a second interview.

As she arrived and entered the aged building she saw a man, rather handsome, though he reminded her of Edward Scissorhands, minus the cuts and, well, the scissorhands.
He looked shy and nervous, his walk and the way he held himself reminded her so much of something unnameable. She ended up following him to the exact foyer she was expected to be in. They both sat down on the muddy coloured couch and fiddled with their appearance: Santa picking at her finger nails, Xavier adjusting his tie.
The secretary walked in and greeted them both and said Mr Lynch would be ready for them in just a moment and sat down behind her desk.
Santa and Xavier smiled lamely at each other and resumed their respective activities. And one by one they got called into the office with the asymmetrical door.

Sitting side by side, Mr Lynch eventually spoke.