Sushi for One? by Camy Tang Page A

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    The guard typed her name into his computer. “Oh. Miss Sakai, you were supposed to be in conference room D22. They’ve been waiting for you.”
    Lex swallowed a hysterical scream. “Where is it?”
    “Up the stairs, to the right, second door on the left.”
    Her stupid pencil skirt wouldn’t let her take the stairs two at a time. She entered the conference room hot and panting. Three pairs of eyes glared at her.
    One older gentleman with a ring of silver hair set down the phone. “The security guard told us you’d been sent to another conference room.” From his tone, he didn’t seem to believe her or the guard.
    “I’m sorry.” Pant, pant. “The first — ” Pant, pant — “security guard — ” Pant, pant, wheeeze.
    “Never mind.” A middle-aged man with a long, thin face waved her to a seat and introduced the silver-haired man and a young,antsy man. “We didn’t get copies of your résumé. Do you have extra ones?”
    “Yes, sir — ” Lex opened her leather folio and grabbed —
    One sheet. Where were her other copies?
    In the printer. At home. Forgotten as she rushed out of the house.
    “Uh . . . I only have one copy.”
    The antsy man rolled his eyes.
    Lex sat down on the chair, resting her hand on the smooth plastic armrest —
    Eeewww.
    Something sticky-slippery, like a cross between glue and butter.
    All over the armrest, and now coating her palm.
    This was going to be either a very short or a very long interview.

ELEVEN
    T he interview ended up being pathetically short. After a few questions that made her sound like a complete moron for applying for a receptionist position with no corporate receptionist experience, they pushed her out the door, which barely missed hitting her backside on the way out.
    Her only saving grace had been that they didn’t even bother to rise to shake her hand good-bye, so she didn’t have to try a left-handed shake when her right hand looked fully functional. She entered the lobby and immediately saw the women’s restroom on the other end. With a yellow Cuidado: Piso Mojado sign in front of the propped open door.
    She peeked in and saw the janitor, a surly-looking Hispanic man. “Can I just come in to wash my hand?”
    “ No entre. Es peligroso. ”
    “I just need to wash my hand.”
    “ No , esta resbaloso. ”
    “Please?”
    “ Por dios! ”
    Guess that was a no. She headed toward the men’s restroom just as someone exited and caught a glimpse of other men inside. Nope, she couldn’t sneak in to use the sink.
    A couple of oversized couch-chairs sat against the wall across from the restrooms. She walked over and flopped down —
    “Stop!” A man’s voice came out of nowhere.
    Squish.
    Comfy overstuffed chairs — especially those upholstered in modern zippy colors — weren’t supposed to squish. Something colder than her skin seeped through her skirt.
    Lex slammed her hands down on the chair arms to hoist herself up. She was reminded of the stickiness on her palm, but not in time.
    Upholstery fuzz clung to the gummy residue on her skin. With a heave, she shot to her feet.
    Her skirt stuck to her bottom with a disgusting, wet feeling.
    A forty-something man in a polo shirt and slacks approached. “You okay? I saw the janitor clean a stain off the seat cushion a few minutes ago.”
    Lex then noticed that the scent of industrial cleaner hung heavier in the air here than near the bathroom. She glanced back at the seat cushion and the psychedelic colors slammed her with an instant headache. “The fabric must hide the water mark.” She almost didn’t want to look at her behind, but she twisted around for a peek.
    “It’s not too bad.” Then he looked away, face glowing. She guessed he belatedly realized he probably shouldn’t be staring at her tush. Not that she had that much tush in the first place.
    His ringed left hand — darn, married — carried a worn leather briefbag like the ones she’d seen on Levenger.com, except his had a faded