There is an albatross of hope. A cumbersome, rotting bird that swings from twine around my neck. With every step it cuts into me, its full spread wings blocking every doorway, knocking over everything.

They called me for an interview. This always raises my suspicions. How desperate are they, what kind of revolving door job have I aspired to, don't they have any standards? My resume is an Indian Treaty of lies and brittle promises. I've left off a dozen jobs where I walked away, stormed off, or been fired.

I have three suits left. Two from the 90's, one from JCPenney. I'll need to decide which to look uncomfortable in. I wore the dark one last to a funeral. I didn't have the guts to attend. I sat in the car while they buried my Grandmother, the windows fogged up, the rain coming down.

My brown suit has been to more meetings than I have. It has stood in for me at presentations, while making small talk. It stayed late, arrived early, and been just as long out of fashion.

Under the plastic beside it is a beige summer suit. Like a body in a shallow grave, a suffocated face, a sour squash, it dares me to pull it out, even to wear it. Anything to take the attention away from this bird around my neck.