Notes

　　The sun beams at me, blazing as caustic as hellfire. Abundant amount of sweat slick, oozing from my forehead, temple, back, and many parts I don’t want to tell. My hand that has been used to fan myself starts to feel sore.

　　I don’t know how long I have been cooling myself or how many miles I have been through with my skinny legs. My mind is too busy scanning through what surrounds me; queue of stores with mass of people.

　　The movement of them looks blurred to me, probably, because my gaze is too slow or they’re too fast. Whatever the reason is, they shouldn’t be the one I focus. I tear my gaze away, carelessly.

　　My gaze, my sharp gaze won’t stop moving, searching and searching and so does my head, turning and turning. I start to think that I’m a fool and I need to give up, I have to find other career, appropriate one.

　　However, once I have found what I’ve been searching on, my heart drops, my stomach churns, and my heart pounds faster and faster like sharp rat-a-tat of savage hare. I stop, freezing at the sight of certain building with ‘HostMaidClub’ sign.

　　I gulp down my own saliva, bobbing the absent Adam’s apple I don’t have. I take one step, two steps, three steps, and finally I leap, running through swarm of people who are as sweaty as I am.

　　I don’t hesitate, I don’t even knock when there’s mahogany door of the bureau before. I walk in or, perhaps, barge in like I own the place. I could feel people staring, studying me for a moment.

　　I feel embarrassed, I could feel my cheeks began to heat up like hot skillet. I shake my head. I don’t have time to feel ashame. I turn my head, searching for another door, another lead for my new employment.

　　I could feel my lips are tugged, twisting into a smile and my stomach snapping around when I catch a spectacle of oaken door with ‘manager’ board. This time, I don’t leap or run like hoodlum. Instsad, I walk in, carefully.

　　“Excuse me.”
I say. I don’t have time to pant or show how exhausted I am.
　　“I’m here to give my Curriculum Vitae.”
I extend my hand, sliding brown map I have against broad desk in front of me.

　“My name is Petya. Petya Zhuralyov. I’m 19 years old and I’m sure that I’m old enough to be recruited.”
　　I pause, for a moment before I open my mouth only to speak, speak, and speak like chatter box.

　“My reason to apply is money. I move away from Russia to here alone. I don’t want to be a burden for my parents, I have made enough ruckus back home.”
　　There’s bitter laugh, spontaneously coming out of my throat. It feels like I spit my morning coffee.

　“I never work as a host before, but I know what Host is and I’ll make sure I won’t be a disappointment to your company.”
　　I take a deep breath and without hesitation I bend my torso down, performing a pose of begging.

　“So, please accept me as your worker!”