"What’s your dream job,” he asked, sitting in front of her and looking into her eyes.
“I… I like drawing”, she said, but hesitated to use the word ‘artist’.
“Then you want to be an artist,” he said, looking down to the files on the table.
“I… I don’t know,” she said, frustrated, holding her hands together tightly and twisting her wrists. He suddenly lifted his head, staring at her, as though she was some prisoner in an interrogation room.
With a sigh, he said nothing, but she heard his thoughts: You should know yourself completely before coming into this room. With an uncomfortably head-turning, she neither said anything, but he heard her reply: But that’s impossible.
"How about you tell me something about yourself,” he said, holding those files up to his face, like surrendering.
“Oh, ok,” she said, staring at him like she could look through papers. “I love drawing; I love listening to music; I love cooking; I love watching movies; I love reading; I love desserts; I love my rabbits; I love rainy days; I love sleeping; I love all the colors; I love watermelons and peaches; I love fine china; I love McDonalds; I love traveling. I love a lot,” she giggled, like she heard something really funny.
“Alas, you do,” he said, throwing the papers aside on the sofa, as though preparing for a battle.
“May I ask a few questions?” He asked, and without waiting for the answer, started.
“What do you love to draw? What kind of music do you usually listen to? Do you prefer French cuisine or Japanese? What’s your favorite movie and book? Why do you love desserts? How many rabbits do you have? Is it better to sleep on a rainy day? Do you like green colored lipstick? Do you like watermelons that taste like peaches? How much fine china do you have? Why don’t you like KFC? Where have travelled?” He stopped, lifting his chin a tiny, tiny bit. But she heard the unspoken rest: Do you really love what you love?
She suddenly stood up. “I’m going to get some water; do you want some?” She asked, and she walked away before he answered.
“What do you love then?” She asked as a way to break the awkward silence, or more.
“I love my job,” he said, looking at her and answering in a confident tone.
She didn’t reply. Oh god, she knows it, he thought to himself.
She suddenly started to giggle, and soon the giggling turned to laughing, and water spilled out of the cup she was holding. But her eyes, staring at him, were calm like they belonged to another person. Oh god, she knows, he thought again. He felt like water in her cup, crushed by her sound. Her laughter didn’t stop … until his secretary knocked.
“I’m afraid time is up,” the secretary said.
“Alas, time flies,” he said, and she heard his final thought:
I guess I hate my job, a lot.