‘Vulnerability, Now and Then’ by Soramimi Hanarejima

After she gets in the car, we look at each other, and I can tell from her expression that she can tell from my expression that I can see through her. And, wow, can I ever — to the point that I can make out the mangoes and avocados of a fruit stand framed by the car window behind her.

For a long moment, there is only charged eye contact and her lips pursed at my eyebrows raised at her diaphanous appearance — the dour line of her mouth seeming to chastise me for seeing something I shouldn’t have, though of course there’s no way I’m not going to notice that some perceived threat has made her involuntarily turn translucent.

“The interview?” I ask — because it’s possible that on the way over a car swerved in her direction or a dog barked ferociously at her.

“Yes, the interview,” she says. “Which is ridiculous because I’m overqualified for this position, and really I should be past this whole thing by now.”

No one is ever past their evolutionary heritage, but of course I’m not going to say that.

“I can’t go in like this,” she declares. “The hiring manager will know how easy it is for everyone to tell when I’m feeling vulnerable. Even if he takes me at my word that this rarely happens, he’s going to worry that it’ll happen at some inopportune, high-stakes moment.”

“Well, let’s go anyway. Maybe you’ll feel better,” I say, hoping my words sound genuinely optimistic. “And we can try doing some deep breathing when we get there.”

Miraculously, she doesn’t protest, so I start the car.