The Art of Oral: Swallowing Glory in the Interview Room

Glory hole Swallows

Glory hole Swallows Pic(s)

The polished mahogany door before me seemed to absorb all sound, a monolithic barrier to my future. My palms were unpleasantly damp, and I wiped them surreptitiously on the knees of my new, slightly stiff trousers. The low hum of the office air conditioning felt like a countdown, each second stretching into an eternity of anxious waiting. I could hear the muffled murmur of voices from the other side, a conversation I was not meant to hear but strained to decipher anyway. My mind raced, rehearsing answers to questions that had not yet been asked, each mental run-through feeling more clumsy than the last. The scent of lemon-scented polish and old paper filled the air, a smell I would forever associate with this moment of acute suspense. I adjusted my tie for what felt like the hundredth time, its knot suddenly feeling like a noose of my own inexperience. A sudden, sharp laugh from behind the door made my heart stutter, a frantic bird trapped in the cage of my ribs. I clutched the thin leather portfolio in my hands, its contents—my resume, my references—feeling woefully inadequate. When the door finally swung open with a soft click, the world seemed to tilt, and I rose on unsteady legs to meet my fate.