You’re bleeding, Jacob said as he knelt in the middle of a rain-slicked street, his shirt soaked and clinging to his back. The woman in the orange gown tried to brush it off, lifting her muddied leg with a wince, holding a snapped stiletto heel in one hand. It’s fine, she muttered, clearly embarrassed.
Her car was stalled just feet away, hazard lights blinking on a red convertible, she clearly wasn’t planning to crash into a flooded pothole that She looked powerful, rich even, but in this moment she was stranded, wet, injured and invisible to the crowd that kept walking past her. Except for him. Jacob reached out instinctively, steadying her with one hand, inspecting the muddy gash on her shin with the other.
There’s glass in it, he murmured, you need to sit down.
She looked at him like she wasn’t used to being helped.
He noticed the way her eyes flicked to the résumé sticking out of his backpack, to the cheap watch on his wrist, to the nerves he was clearly hiding. You’re in a hurry, she said. He nodded.
Interview. Then go, she replied quickly, even though she could barely stand. You’re hurt, he said again, not moving.
Come on, there’s a café across the street, we’ll dry off, clean it up. She hesitated, then gave in, limping slightly as he offered his arm. Inside the café they shook off the rain.
Jacob asked the barista for a first aid kit and returned with napkins and a cup of warm water. The woman watched him, baffled by how calm he seemed. You’re missing something important, she said after a moment.
I can tell. He smiled faintly, dabbing the cut on her leg. Yeah, interview of a lifetime…
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