Unlike modern artists that only wanted to sell, sell, sell, the one standing before me was speaking in a lively, genuine manner. She was somehow managing a professional image as she barely avoided bouncing around in her spot, the energy emanating off of her contagious as the crowd surrounding her easel chatted animatedly about the picture I couldn't see. After all, I was here to work, just like the artist who was most likely presenting the piece to be sold, which, by the looks of it, the current buyers had some competition with passer-by that wanted in.
Focus, Tegan… I shook my head, once again derailing my gaze from the honey coloured orbs that had met mine each time I just managed to recollect my thoughts. You're here on business…
"Miss Quin?" The voice taking my attention away from the attractive woman now seated across the room, scrolling through her phone, belonged to no one other than the person I was supposed to be looking out for. Her hand was outstretched to pull out the chair opposite mine, eyebrows stitched together in apprehensive confusion. "Are you Tegan Quin?" She tried again, pointing to the papers in her hand. After I nodded, with a slight grimace to express my feelings towards the use of my full name, she took a seat.
I felt suffocated enough in my suit attire - the tie was practically choking me and I couldn't wear my boxers with the dress pants, making the whole day a disaster waiting to happen - and I couldn't help but feel out of place in the art gallery Robyn had suggested for our meeting. I didn't understand the proposal, because our conference had almost nothing to do with paintings - however, I wasn't displeased with the view I had of a certain beautiful work of art - but I did as was asked of me, grabbing a coffee on the way from the home I'd left in my preferred war zone-style excuse for cleanliness.
Robyn wasn't wearing much of anything similar to my apparel at all. She had a white sleeveless vest on and a red tie to accompany it, and, feeling even more alien at this, I adjusted the tie around my neck to a less-asphyxiating degree. Where should I start? What should I say? Did she want to bring up something in particular? My years of experience in this profession did nothing in these types of situations. Everyone back in the building was expected to be ready for any type of person, to behave and remember that the customer - or, in our case, the client - was always right. However, I wasn't the kind to deal with assholes, and that was a common-known fact from the very beginning. I worked my way up the ranks and tried my hardest every day, worked harder on the tasks that other employees half-assed just so I could get to the point where I am now: the label executive of Vancouver's biggest music production company.
My job includes scouting for talent at local shows, looking for people to sign, and meeting the people my boss asks me to. He doesn't think many are worth his time, and the ones that he does, I interview, so all he does is pull the strings behind his subordinates. And that's 'office life' for the outsider: boring and complicated. I've often reconsidered my station and wondered what it would be like on the other side of the table - though, it isn't much of a struggle; I spend the majority of my free time with musicians I've come to be quite close with, thanks to my career choice. There are times where I've played backup for my friends' bands and took to featuring in low-key songs, but these are nothing more than hobbies. I like to think that I can make someone else's dreams come true, and I try to remember that I actually like my job… for the most part.
The interview was going slow as I followed the same old routine, filing through papers and asking and answering questions, but we finally powered through after a couple of hours, during which time the artist in the corner of the room had packed up her remaining things and left. I deemed around then to be appropriate for our departure and rose from my chair to shake Robyn's hand, the step I'd forgotten when we first met. She seemed nice and I'd gained enough information to report back to Smith with a positive attitude intact, so I bid her farewell and collected my things, placing her papers in the folder I'd promised the boss-man upon return to the company.
I set out from the gallery with the mindset to get right to bed when I got home, but my plans were immediately crushed under the scent of cinnamon buns wafting from the open door of the cafe just a few feet around the corner. In seconds the crossing light would switch to green and I'd be allowed to cross, but the aromas were growing more and more irresistible as time went on and the red sign mocked my dwindling willpower. I shrugged off my priorities and decided that a coffee would wake me up, turning into the shop just as the sound of shuffling feet and people moving signalled the change of traffic. I nodded to the man who kept the door open for me and stepped inside, trying to avoid a pathetic whimper and a bit of drooling from the exposure to all of my favourite pastries. They were lined against the opposite wall of the entrance, cashiers waiting just in front with bright smiles and bags at the ready. I moved to the counter and opened my mouth to order, but the woman already had my to-be dinner prepared.
"Will that be all?" She asked, handing me the bag. I bit my lip, opened my mouth again, shook my head, and then, rolling my eyes at my indecisiveness, asked for a chocolate lover's mocha latte, which she brought to me with godspeed. I thanked her and paid for everything, turning carefully as to not spill my purchases. I took a step forward and just caught a flash of somewhat familiar brown hair before my chest was dripping with hot liquid, the smell of hazelnut sinking into my suit jacket.
