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Luke
Iexamine myself in the full-length mirror after spending an hour getting ready. I see sweat stains under my arms and sigh in frustration.
Ripping the shirt off and reaching for my extra-strength deodorant in one swift motion, I put on a new shirt for the third time. I look fine, but who knows how long until I develop stains again.
My sweat glands know when I feel nervous, and they know to work double today since today I take the written test for the position of Captain at the firehouse.
The alarm on my watch takes me away from the mirror and back to society. I need to leave, like, now. I don’t have any extra time to focus on my looks.
As I quickly drive to the station for the test, I catch myself wondering if I look good enough to flirt with an older firefighter into giving me a good grade. I tell myself I don’t want a lover. I am just vain and want anyone to find me attractive, including men.
Hot women do it to see if they can all the time by showing some cleavage or leg. I catch Emma doing it for fun more than to get something out of it.
In what way can I flirt with a man? Show off my muscles or my abs? How do I do that casually?
Using my mental strength, I refocus my brain away from my appearance (again) and remind myself that the best way to flirt with a man or woman involves that title of Captain in front of my nametag.
Walking into the cafeteria temporarily turned into a classroom, I flashback to taking tests in high school. I make all the classic mistakes: spending too much time on one question, second-guessing myself, and temporarily amnesia on test material that comes back the second I turn in the test.
I try hard to use my mental strength to minimize the anxiety, but some things require more training and practice to perfect. As my heart races and I trip over one of the chairs on the way to my desk, I realize I am not quite there yet.
Start from the beginning.
The first section involves math and spatial relations. I glance at the questions and immediately move on to the next section: reading comprehension.
I read an obnoxiously technical excerpt regarding preventing electrical fires and need to determine the thesis of the selection.
Do they want me to select A or B? Or C?
My pencil fills out an answer on the Scantron (I don’t remember which), and I promise to come back to the question later if I have time.
The questions continue to confuse me, but I do my best to make sense of the questions and avoid confusion. Every motion someone makes, and every light cough startles me, taking me out of focus.
I sneak a glance at the man administering the test and quickly decide I don’t want to flirt with him until he gets hamburger stains off of his beer belly. I will need to do the best I can on the test, I guess.
One by one, colleagues get up and turn in the test. I try to remind myself that finishing quickly doesn’t always mean a job well done (that’s what she said!), and I need to focus instead of wasting time cracking jokes to myself.
My head stays firmly down at my desk, but I hear more and more people leaving until I am sure I must be the last one.
“Ten minutes remaining,” the test administrator announces.
Timidly, I glance and find that I was indeed the last person in the room.
At this point, I may need to suck it up and take out my dick to convince Chubby to give me the answer key over a pizza dinner with romantic french-fry scented candles.
I look at my answer key, feeling the pressure of the clock, and notice a significant part of the math portion unfilled. Knowing I don’t have time to analyze each question, I read each question slowly and make a final decision.
When I fill the last bubble on the Scantron, I feel a large weight fall from my shoulders. I feel free.
I don’t have much control over the results at this point. I will find out my results tomorrow and make my next move after that.
I jump up and wink at the administrator as I turn in the test.
Now allowed to use my phone again, I pull it out as soon as I walk out the cafeteria door. Emma sent me three texts wanting an update. I tell her that I will let her know over drinks at her place.
When I arrive at Emma’s, she opens the door by blowing a celebratory horn at me. She wears jean shorts, a tank top, a party hat, and her hair in a ponytail.
“Congrats!” she says, hugging me.
