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Usually they got it pretty close. My type wasn’t exactly a secret and there were a few female workers who fit the bill. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it that year, with the lockdown and all, but it wasn’t like they were stopping cars.
Not yet anyway, and certainly not stretched limos with tinted windows. Too much risk of it being used by a politician or mafioso. Neither of them the type you’d want to get on the wrong side of. It would be a simple matter of sending a doctor to the winner to do a test. Then, if they were clean, having them brought straight to my place. Even the government couldn’t outright stop travel to private homes. Not as things stood
The list of candidates was clear in my head. I could see them clearly. As well as having a good idea of what they looked like out of their work clothes. At first glance, the women, all employees at the publishing house for at least three years, didn’t seem to have much in common. One a buxom redhead. Another a cute, skinny brunette. Others curvy blonds, and at least one petite pixie who wore bubblegum-pink ringlets. Quite different indeed.
At least on the obvious, physical level. I’d been looking for something more subtle. Clearly there if you were looking for it. Though, easily missed if you were not. A certain consistency of line, at least in the physical sense.
It didn’t matter exactly what size or shape it took. I was attracted to symmetry. More than that, though, I required anyone who might to be considered to have something else. Something much harder to define, let alone spot. A quality best described by the phrase ‘gentleness of spirit.’
Despite the difficulty, particularly of identification, I had my candidates. Six in all. All of them likely to serve well during the project. It was just a matter of shortening the list. First to three and then to two. One winner as well as a runner-up, in case the winner wanted to back out or doesn’t clear the test.
As though the fates had been listening, my phone let out its happy chime. Alerting me to the arrival of a new message in my email. A child of the Digital Age as much as younger folk, possibly more so considering I remembered when the internet first went public, I went right to my account.
“That was quick,” I mused, sort of recognizing the name.
I had only a vague memory of hiring a Vega Alejo. Though it did ring a bell in the deepest part of my subconscious. It was bound to, not being the sort of name one saw every day. My spelling was almost embarrassing and the structure underlying my sentences even more ESL than usual. I really couldn’t explain it.
My father was French, but one of the few who could speak English well. My mother was from Louisiana and completely bilingual, at least in their version of French. I’d grown up with both and couldn’t quite accord for the distinct French dominance in my speech and writing. It likely had something to do with me spending the first 25 years of my life in France. Environment having even more of an effect than family. I understood English well enough. It was the practice when things tended to fall apart.
I looked back over my letter and her response. She was certainly eager. At my count she had applied for fifteen different projects in the space of five minutes. Taking the shotgun approach, no doubt. Still, it was impressive, and I was pleased with her initiative. The reply I’d sent connected back to her application.
Out of sheer curiosity, I tapped it for a look. Despite her apparent youth, 25 if I had my math correct, Ms. Alejo had a very impressive resume. Not to mention references. No wonder Emmi had suggested I hire her.
The company was being run day-to-day by the assistants. Though all major decisions still came down to me. Under serious advisement, of course. There were times I thought I would have made quite a good politician. I would just need the right people around me to tell me what my opinion was.
The more I read, the more interested I became. There was something about her, even though it was only being communicated through text on a screen, the resonated with me. Peaks of experience as well as gaps. All speaking of a history that was at least interesting, if not tragic.
It was the picture that did it. The photograph that Vega had opted to send with her application.
We couldn’t request it anymore because of the law. Though applicants could do so if they chose. I preferred it when they did. Not for any prurient purpose. I just found it easier to connect with someone when I could see their eyes. Even if they were at a distance. Especially then.
