Thirteen months of unemployment had nearly broken him. So, when he stepped into the bright sterile office for his umpteenth interview that month, the poor guy was already on edge.
It was the dour middle-aged woman behind the desk who pushed him over.
Her posture rigid, her face gaunt, her skin paper thin and ghostly white. She was a living, breathing skeleton and she had an endless list of idiotic questions.
“If you could be a condiment…” was how she started.
He immediately spun on his heel and headed back out.
Homelessness couldn’t be any worse than this horror show.
The Weekday One Hundred 