The interview had gone well, so why was he left with such an empty feeling in his stomach? He shielded his eyes from the bright heat as he stepped outside and walked to his car. He’d dressed business casual, with a burgundy button-down T that accented his olive skin tones and dark eyes. Since it was 100 degrees outside, he’d opted for black shorts and dress shoes, but he was already doubting that decision, along with every last word that had come out of his mouth. But first and foremost, he wondered if he should have left the eyeliner at home.

He was a chameleon, at least that’s what he’d always been told. He was good at fitting in and being just cool enough that people listened when he spoke, but they didn’t pick him out of a crowd. This had served him well: it meant he could voice his opinions without being thought of as the loud one; most people thought of him as their chill friend, but he stayed out of the work drama; and while he had often been asked for his advice, he didn’t stand out enough to be everyone’s first choice for volunteer work. Maybe that was why he had opted for the light makeup since the worst thing about being a chameleon was that one often didn’t feel seen.

To him, the eyeliner signified the part of himself that he’d masked for years. It stood for the fun part of him that he wanted people to see but not judge. And it narrowed his face in an attractive way that stood out. And perhaps that was the mistake.

The soles of his shoes stuck lightly to the baking sidewalk as the sweat gathered in his pits. He groaned at himself for having parked so far away and opted for a short-cut across the manicured lawn. He stopped with his first step on the soft green as it dawned on him that the interviewers might still be watching – would they judge him for cutting across the grass to get to his car? Maybe.

But he already knew they weren’t going to call him back. And he was tired of always doing the ‘proper thing’ because he was afraid of what others might think of him. He stuck his hands in his pockets and plodded across the lawn.

As he felt his fate sealing itself, he reconsidered his own certainty of their disinterest. Despite taking copious notes on every word he said, the interview team had seemed distant and robotic, like they already knew who they were going to hire. They smiled at his joke and had nodded with him when he’d said something particularly relevant, but he hadn’t felt any kind of buy-in.

He muttered a quiet curse and slipped into his car. The muggy heat triggered a full body sweat that made him feel gross all over. He blasted the AC and glanced at himself in the car mirror. The rims of his eyelids glistened with sweat and lightly-smeared liner. He wondered if their interest would have increased if he had fit in more. But he was tired of that, tired of being the boring one in the back, and tired of pretending he was normal.

He ran sweaty hands through his hair, smudged his eyeliner to give it a cloudy look, and forced a smile on his face. He repeated the self-talk his therapist had recommended: “It’s alright. You look good, and they are missing out. If they don’t want you, you probably wouldn’t have been happy there anyway. Better luck next time.”

He took a deep breath and kept the smile on a moment longer. The words sounded hollow, but he felt a warmth growing in his chest. He prayed it was hope and not simply the unrelenting heat.

My Muse