The antechamber beckoned. The night had begun. My name was signed away. I will squeeze every last opportune moment of May dry. To the bitters end.
The vestibule had almost swallowed me whole; I was beside myself. My first cocktail, a gimlet, was consuming me, instead of I, it. It felt cool on the palm of my hand.
Beyond the entrance I noted an exclusive variety of stalls and canapés. The anteroom buzzed with ‘I hate networking’ ‘What am I doing here—oh but I do. love. martinis, thanks’. I forgot the anteroom. All I could think about was the map. Having consulted it not for mere hours, but many days.
I approached with my best saunter. From the moment that I floated through the arches and columns impressing the hallowed halls, a hakainai-salt-rimmed margarita materialised and I was sold.
Suckling softly on the glass’s rim I observed my opponents, great and small, whom by the end of the night I will have conquered. And by that I mean the cocktails.
After some encouragement from my closest compatriots, I crossed the room, gently spilling the fresh lime and rum across the floor hoping that it would incite a fall, so as to somehow ease the pain within me.
I found myself idling behind a swathe of humans waiting on mint-ier juleps. ‘This isn’t working’. I disappeared into the crowd.
‘I’m glad that I went to this’. I thought. ‘Because what I really want is a real job’. I leaned against the amphitheatre and surveyed the three walls as they started to shift.
I thought of home. One and a half hours away. Or was it half an hour? Or was it really just here. Yes, I thought. It’s here.
My first strategic move. Getting my hands on a soft and fluffy espresso martini. The gathering towards the left was bursting at the seams. I should, instead, begin at the right.
Awash with emotion, I anticipated my first conversation with G & T’s. I was presented with so much gin, so much tonic, that these here drinks would serve as the shackles that would bind me to my new home for the rest of my conscious life.
I submitted to the intoxication.
My suit was so sharply cut that I couldn’t run my fingers down it without feeling nauseous. Maybe it was because I was on my 17th standard; this time, an amaretto sour. I mean, by that, to say my 7th real human interaction. No fuck, I mean my 70th CV sent. Anyway.
The human resources representatives came across with another tray of cosmos. I slid my business card across the table, catching the cool residue that they left behind.
It read ‘Amelia Rose Eddy - Student of the Juris Doctor’. I brimmed with confidence; I was delighted. I came, I slid, I conquered.
I am alone. I am an island. An island rearing to hustle. An old fashioned appears. I am done here.
I so look forward to meeting more cocktails tomorrow.
Amelia Eddy—2nd year JD student and LSS Women’s Officer—was, despite evidence to the contrary, not actually in attendance at said professional evening.