“You understand,” said Brian Shingle, chipping in for the first time in thirty minutes, “that we’re looking for someone to expand the role and move the team forward; how might you go about such a feat?”
Anya took a quiet breath and tried to organise her thoughts, but she began to feel the pressure with the three of them sat staring at her, waiting for her to perform. The room was a dump, not big enough for any of the regular team meetings – it felt like a police interview room, bare and neglected.
Actually, it was quite cool in here, draughty even. Anya shifted with discomfort as her spine stretched and her abdomen clenched. The seconds were stretching out; the three stooges in front of her seemed frozen in a state of mild disdain. Her eyes scanned around looking for inspiration, but the room only echoed the engulfing blankness. Her breathing quickened in her tight chest and she felt a little light, somewhat distant. Echoes of nothing found her ears, and her eyes sought out the wisps of hair on Brian’s and then Monica’s cheeks, her eyes grew narrow and then wider as they took in the colours that were streaming from each hair, contour and line on their faces.
Wisps, smoke-like trails of translucent colour streams surrounded the three managers, each had their own signature shapes and hues; Monica had a dull glow with dark yellow and brown eddies whirling up from around her midriff; Brian was surrounded by subtle shades of lavender and blue, while James Fenton was the centre of a nimbus of electric blue just hovering over a deep dark red outline, close to his body’s outline.
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