“Are you alright?” he asked.
Angela nodded, looked away. A radio crackled on his belt.
“Level one, Owen,” a voice—the girlfriend—said. “Heading west.”
“On it, Jenny!” he said. To Angela: “Sorry again, ma’am.”
He turned and ran down the hall. His skin started changing color as he hopped onto the escalator. Angela took a deep breath and stepped into the game store.
The cashier was a heavyset man with wisps of orange hair poking out from the collar of his burgundy polo shirt. His nametag, hanging from a lanyard around his neck, said “Andrew, Manager”. Angela approached tentatively, clutching her resume to her chest.
“Hi,” Andrew said. “Can I help you?”
“I… heard you had a job opening,” Angela said hoarsely. “I’d like to apply.”
“Okay,” he said. “Did you bring a resume?”
“Y-yes,” Angela said.
She thrust the sheet toward him. He took it and rubbed his chin.
“No retail experience, eh?” he said.
She shook her head. An itch started creeping down her arms. She scratched the back of her wrist nervously.
“What about gaming?” he asked. “Do you play?”
“Just Akkraemyth,” she replied.
The itch started to intensify, spreading across her back and down her legs. Her eyes felt like water balloons about to spring a leak.
“What level?” he asked.
“My necromancer’s at seventy-two,” she replied.
“Well, it’s a start,” he said, chuckling. “It’s going to be a week or two before we pick someone, but we’ll definitely keep you in mind.”
She gritted her teeth and muttered, “Thanks.”
She moved out of the way of a customer waiting behind her and hurried out the door. Her skin was on fire now, like chicken pox on steroids. She ran to the nearest washroom and stepped up to the mirror.